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L  I  E>  RARY 

OF   THE 

UN  IVLRSITY 

Of    ILLINOIS 

823 
1844 

V.I 


a 


r)«if 


I«14--1<J^H 


CALEB  STUKELY. 


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in  2009  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign 


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CALEB  STUKELY. 


IN  THREE  VOLUMES. 


VOL.  L 


WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD   AND   SONS, 

EDINBURGH   AND   LONDON. 

M.DCCC.XLIV. 


EDINBURGH:  PRINTED  BY  BALLANTTNE  AND   HUGHES, 
PAULS   WOKK,  CANONGATE. 


'844- 


% 


CALEB    STUKELY. 


PART  I. 

HOME. 

The  voices  of  my  home !  I  hear  them  still ; 

They  have  been  with  me  through  the  dreamy  night  — 

The  blessed  household  voices,  wont  to  fill 

My  heart's  clear  depths  with  unalloy'd  delight ! 

I  hear  them  stiU  unchanged. 

Mr&  Hemans. 

When  I  inform  the  courteous  reader,    that  if  it 
shall  please  Providence  to  spare  my  unworthy  exis- 
tence until  the  7  th  day  of  July  next  ensuing,  I  shall 
^.  have  reached  the  sixty- fourth  year  of  my  age ;  and 
"   that,  of  that  number,   as  many  as   forty  have  been 
i   spent  in  the  exercise  of  my  duties  at  the  attorney's 
s:  office  from  which  I  now  write — will  he  not  be  tempt- 
\;J  ed  to  exclaim,    "  Can  any  good  thing  come  out  of 
Nazareth  ?  "  and  decline  at  once  the  perusal  of  what 
^'  is  written  solely  for  his  edification  and  improvement 
\  in  life  ?     But  herein  would  he  do  me  injustice,  and 
his  own    understanding   dishonour.     I   have   moved 

VOL.  I.  A 


2  CALEB  STUKELY. 

amongst  men  long  enough  to  know,  that  there  is  as 
little  propriety  in  estimating  the  individual  according 
to  his  caste,  as  there  would  be  in  fonning  an  idea  of 
a  class  from  the  observation  of  an  individual.     But 
that  it  might  seem  presumptuous,  and  savour,  indeed, 
of  vanity  on  my  part,  how  easy  were  it  for  me  to  show 
that  the  loveliest  flowers,  the  sweetest  gems  of  earth, 
are  often  found  in  quiet  and  scarce-trodden  lanes,  and 
here  and  there  adorning  hard  and  uneven  roads,  too 
rugged  for  the  delicate  foot  to  travel  !     What  can  be 
more  noxious  and  forbidiling  than  the  clayey  and  damp 
bowels  of  the  earth,  to  which  we  consign  with  a  shud- 
der all  that  we  love  best  ?  and  yet  dig  deep  enough, 
and  behold  the  bright  silver  and  still  brighter  gold  ! 
In  the  muddied  oyster  lurks  the  shining  pearl,  and 
golden  threads  come  from  the  creeping  w^orm.    Truly 
it  is  not  in  this  situation  of  life,  or  in  that,  that  every 
virtuous  or  superior  spirit  is  collected;  but  the  good 
seed  is  strewn  abroad,  and  it  waxes  and  strengthens 
on  every  side — not  less  at  times  when  cared  for  only 
by  the  sun,  than  when  the  cunning  hand  of  art  is  busy 
in  the  rearing.    Nature  has  not  her  choicest  treasures 
in  golden   caskets,  nor  is    the  honest   heart   always 
beneath  the  softest  skin.     Far  be  it  from  me  to  arro- 
gate to  myself  the  conclusion  that  I  would  draw  from 
such  propositions — poorest  of  mortals  that  I  am  !   I 
trust  I  know  myself.     I  am  about  to  leave  the  world ; 
and  of  man  I  ask  nothing  but  tenderness  towards  his 
fellow  man,  and  a  love  of  somethina:  larger  than  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  3 

speck  of  which  his  self  consists.  There  are  more 
reasons  than  one  why,  at  this  moment,  when  the 
period  appointed  by  the  Psalmist  for  our  sojourn  here 
is  for  me  fast  expiring,  and  when,  as  I  may  say,  I 
have  but  the  last  stage  of  existence  to  travel,  that  I 
deem  it  proper  to  place  upon  paper  the  following  few 
occurrences  and  remembrances  of  my  time.  Until  I 
am  cold  in  the  grave,  they  will  not  see  the  light ;  and 
then,  I  flatter  myself,  they  will  bring  comfort  to  a  few 
quiet  and  happy  spirits — such  as  knew  me  in  my 
early  days,  and  judged  it  not  becoming  to  desert  me, 
because  poor  and  humble,  in  middle  life  and  in  decli- 
ning age.  There  is  a  holy  seriousness  in  the  thoughts 
which  we  bestow  upon  the  tombs  of  those  we  love ; 
and  haply,  when  I  am  no  more,  the  perusal  of  some 
familiar  passage  may  strike  a  tender  chord  in  the 
bosom  of  the  venerable  pilgrim,  whose  hand  I  shall 
have  long  before  clasped  for  the  last  time.  His  aged 
eye  may  be  filled  with  a  faithful  tear,  and  his  heart 
yearn  with  humanity  and  love.  The  young,  to  whom 
I  come  as  a  stranger,  will  learn  from  my  failings,  no 
less  than  from  my  experience,  the  difficult  and  thorny 
path  of  life ;  the  sanguine  and  overflowing  temper  be 
taught  patience  and  self-denial,  and  the  unobtrusive 
and  desponding  find  animation  and  encouragement; 
and,  above  all,  I  trust  every  soul  that  reads  will  ac- 
knowledge, from  what  I  have  suffered  and  have  seen, 
the  wisdom  of  God's  dispensations,  his  everlasting 
justice,  truth,  and  mercy. 


4  CALEB  STUKELT. 

Whilst  such  are  the  principal  motives  that  incline 
me  to  my  task,  there  is  still  another  which  has  a  due 
proportion  of  influence  with  me.  Let  not  the  charitable 
reader  reproach  the  old  man's  infirmity,  when  he  avows 
a  natural  affection  for  this  earth,  a  willingness  to 
cling  to  it,  when  he  himself  shall  be  no  longer  a 
dweller  thereon. 

Although  I  have  found  friends,  I  have  lived  as  it 
were  alone  amongst  men.  Mine  has  not  been  the 
consolation  of  the  tender  and  beloved  companion,  to 
share  the  joys  and  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  my  condi- 
tion. No  soft  and  delicate  hand  has  ministered  at  my 
dreary  couch  of  sickness ;  and,  as  a  w  ayfarer,  I  have 
found  no  warm  and  feminine  bosom  to  offer  a  refuge 
from  the  storms  and  killing  frosts  of  the  world.  No 
partner  will  live  to  mourn  me — no  child  to  prosper 
under  a  father's  blessing.  I  shall  die  a  solitary  one, 
and  my  name  will  be  blotted  out  from  the  page  of  life. 
The  longing  that  we  have  to  leave  behind  us  some- 
thing of  ourselves  is  human,  and  rather  to  be  deemed 
worthy  than  condemned;  and  the  common  lot  being 
denied  me,  I  have  a  secret  and  abiding  joy  in  reflec- 
ting that,  after  me,  these  few  pages  will  still  live  for 
many  a  long  year,  and  if  even  read  but  by  a  few,  or 
scarcely  read,  and  hastily  put  away,  they  will  still  live 
tranquilly  on,  assuming  "  a  local  habitation  and  a 
name,"  whilst  I  am  passing  into  the  original  elements 
of  my  nature — vanishing — becoming  nothing.  This 
may  be  weakness — to  an  extent  I  feel  it  is ;  but  such 


CALEB  STUKELY.  5 

as  may  assuredly  be  ranked  amongst  the  privileges 
rather  than  the  vices  of  old  age. 

As  I  have  already  notified,  I  was  born  on  the  7th 
day  of  July,  and  in  the  year  1777.  My  father  carried 
on  a  respectable  business  in  the  city  of  London,  and 
was  reputed,  by  all  who  knev/  him,  a  worthy  trades- 
man and  Vt^ell  to  do  in  life.  He  had  married  young, 
and  of  seven  children  that  had  blessed  their  union, 
when  he  had  reached  the  age  of  sixty,  and  my  mother 
that  of  fifty-eight,  I  only  remained  to  cheer  and  enliven 
the  sunset  of  their  days.  My  parents  were  both  serious- 
ly disposed,  and  they  lived  in  perfect  simplicity  and 
peace.  There  was  an  air  of  stillness  and  repose  about 
them  and  their  proceedings,  and  a  calm  atmosphere 
flowed  throughout  their  habitation,  forming,  in  truth, 
a  strong  and  happy  contrast  to  the  scene  of  business, 
activity,  and  tumult,  beyond  it.  The  recollections  of 
this  house,  situated  as  it  was  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
great  city,  with  its  regular,  precise,  but  by  ho  means 
unsocial  or  cold-hearted  inhabitants,  are  at  this  moment 
vivid  and  fresh.  It  seems  scarcely  a  year;  although, 
alas !  too  many  have  elapsed  since  the  day  that  I  quitted 
the  happy  roof  beneath  which  I  drew  my  first  breath, 
and  heard  for  the  last  time  the  accents  of  a  fond  mother 
bidding  me  adieu.  They  murmur  still  in  my  ear,  like 
the  melancholy  and  hollow  gushings  of  the  sea-shell, 
])ringing  to  ray  view  the  shadows  of  times  and  feelings 
that  are  entombed  in  the  irrevocable  past.  I  left  my 
home  on  this  occasion  to  take  up  my  abode  in  Cam- 


6  C.U.EB  STUKELY. 

bridge,  at  which  university  I  had  entered  a  few  months 
previously.  From  my  earliest  boyhood,  I  had  express- 
ed a  desire  to  be  educated  for  the  church;  and  my 
father,  by  every  means  in  his  power,  encouraged, 
because  he  contemplated  with  delight,  the  growing 
inclination  of  his  last  remaining  hope.  I  was  between 
seventeen  and  eighteen  years  of  age.  Five  years  had 
passed  under  the  eye  of  a  clergyman,  who,  having  him- 
self gone  out  "high  in  honours,"  spent  his  time  in 
preparing  a  select  number  of  young  gentlemen  for  the 
same  distinction.  I  now  "  went  up,"  as  it  is  called, 
with  a  fair  prospect  of  realizing,  in  a  measure,  the 
sanguine  expectations  that  the  indulgent  parent  so 
naturally,  but  as  the  result  every  day  proves,  too 
eagerly,  entertains  of  his  offspring,  when  he  leaves  his 
home,  and  enters  for  the  first  time  upon  the  pursuits 
of  men — whether  it  be  in  the  academy  or  in  the  arena 
of  busier  life.  Long  is  the  list  of  fathers  who  have 
experienced  the  bitter  pangs  of  disappointment  and 
of  shame ;  and  how  many  a  youth,  fortified  with  the 
strongest  resolutions,  and  protected  by  the  warmest 
sensibilities,  has  been  doomed  to  behold  both,  by  a 
process  and  a  transition  almost  imperceptible  in  their 
workings,  dwindling  away  and  utterly  disappearing 
before  the  contaminating  influence  of  evil  example  ! 
On  the  evening  prior  to  my  departure,  my  father  quit- 
ted his  counting-house  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual ; 
and  I,  whilst  still  busy  in  arrangements  for  my  remo- 
val, was  summoned  to  his  presence.     ]My  mother  and 


CALEB  STUKELY.  7 

he  were  seated  in  their  cool  and  quiet  parlour;  and 
the  former,  although  she  appeared,  to  the  exclusion 
of  every  thing  else,  wholly  engrossed  in  the  duties  of 
the  tea-table,  bore  upon  her  mild  and  benignant  coun- 
tenance the  marks  of  recent  sorrow  and  of  present 
trouble.  We  all  three  sat  down,  and  in  silence  par- 
took of  that  meal  which  is  sanctified  by  an  association 
with  our  best  affections. 

Ah !  could  the  humble  man  but  see  and  appreciate 
the  many  advantages  of  his  situation,  not  amongst  the 
least  would  he  account  the  enjoyment  so  peculiarly 
his  own,  of  that  un stimulating  repast  over  which  the 
soft  Vesper  sheds  her  hallowed  influence.  Nor  wealth 
nor  power,  can  purchase  the  luxuries  that  are  collected 
at  the  poor  man's  banquet  of  contentment.  What  an 
accumulation  of  sweet  thoughts  and  grateful  sensations 
hover  round  the  lowly  tea-board  !  Here  did  the  man 
of  business  unbend  his  strong  and  active  mind,  and 
with  his  young  ones  become  himself  once  more  a  child. 
Here  sat  for  many  a  year  the  ever-watching  and 
regardful  mother,  mistress  of  the  happy  feast;  and 
here  day  by  day  met  brother  and  sister,  growing  in 
love  together,  full  of  youthful  life,  melancholy  only 
when  sickness  interfered,  and  one  or  the  other  was 
doomed  to  hear,  without  its  little  partner,  the  pleasant 
hissing  of  the  familiar  kettle.  Who  is  there  living, 
of  the  privileged  class  to  which  I  refer,  that  looking 
back  to  the  remote  and  innocent  beginnings  of  his  life, 
when  his  world  was  his  home,  his  home  a  sanctuary, 


8  CALEB  STUKELT. 

can  call  to  mind,  without  a  thrilling  emotion,  the  daily 
recurrence  of  this  family  meal,  at  which  he  and  those 
he  loved  best  were  assembled,  and  there  was  no  fear 
of  separation  or  thought  of  sorrow,  and  every  heart 
was  united,  and  the  spirit  of  true  socialism  reigned 
triumphant  amongst  them ! 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  my  meal  was  a  troubled 
one — there  was  a  weight  about  my  heart,  and  I  could 
not  eat.  Oh,  how  I  loved  my  home  that  happy  even- 
ing, and  how  the  thought  of  leaving  it  oppressed  and 
sickened  me  ! 

Contrary  to  my  expectation,  my  father  spoke  little 
to  me :  he  had  evidently  intended  to  say  much ;  but 
the  uneasiness  of  my  mother  prevented  him,  and  his 
own  heart  was  full.  I  saw  this  in  his  every  movement 
— his  hand  shook,  and  his  eye  filled  more  than  once 
with  involuntary  tears.  I  felt  a  momentary  relief 
when  at  length  he  pressed  my  hand,  and  wished  me 
good-night.  I  did  not  answer  him — I  could  not  for 
worlds.  A  sickening  pain  at  my  throat  overpowered 
me.  My  heart  was  bursting  when  I  reached  my  room, 
and  threw  myself  on  my  bed,  my  own  dear  bed — in 
which  I  had  slept  from  infancy,  and  on  which  perhaps 
I  might  never  sleep  again.  Exquisitely  delicious  were 
the  tears  that  came  to  my  relief — I  cried,  until  repose 
came,  and  a  glow  of  comfort  such  as  passionate  tears 
will  bring  at  last.  I  look  back — I  but  revoke  tlie 
past.     I  do  not  exaggerate. 

Reader,  I  speak  of  one,  young  in  years  and  in  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  9 

world's  ways,  whose  imagination  and  fond  heart  had 
grown  wild  in  the  sweet  garden  beyond  whose  precincts 
he  had  never  cared  to  stray,  whose  nature  it  was  to 
love  and  to  be  loved,  and  whose  soul  w^as  still  pure 
— pure  as  it  might  be  here. 

The  prayers  that  I  offered  up  that  night  to  the  throne 
of  goodness  and  of  grace  were  fervent,  and,  it  may  be, 
extravagantly  expressed — but  I  deemed,  and  felt  them, 
to  be  honest.  I  w^as  at  that  time  innocent  of  the  lesson 
that  was  taught  to  me  with  some  pains  at  a  later  period 
of  my  life ;  when  the  Serpent,  amongst  other  secrets, 
whispered  into  my  ear  the  miserable  intelligence,  that 
passion  is  not  always  truth,  and  that  the  signs  and 
symbols  of  sensibility  may  be  nothing  loftier  than  false 
and  hypocritically  contrived  inventions.  With  what 
intensity  did  I  implore  blessings  for  my  dear  father 
and  mother !  What  vows  of  obedience,  duty,  and 
abiding  love,  did  I  not  then  make  !  Again  and  again 
did  I  invoke  my  Maker  to  protect  and  support  the 
beloved  authors  of  my  existence  through  all  the  trials 
and  dangers  of  this  life — to  spare  them  yet  for  a  short 
period,  until  I  might  return  to  them  a  hundred-fold 
the  many  acts  of  kindness,  the  thousand  evidences  of 
the  tenderest  affection,  that  I  had  received  at  their 
hands.  With  resolutions  firm,  I  believed,  and  im- 
movable as  the  eternal  hills,  I  at  length  closed  my 
eyes.  I  had  been  asleep  about  an  hour,  when  I  awoke 
so  placid  that  it  was  as  if  I  had  been  restored  to  life 
from  the  arms  of  an  angel.    The  storm  had  died  away, 


10  CALEB  STUKELY. 

and  my  bosom  was  unruffled  even  by  a  sigh.  But  a 
sigh,  and  a  deep  one,  flowed  through  the  room.  I 
raised  myself  on  the  bed.  At  the  foot,  gazing  intently 
upon  me,  sat  my  mother.  "  You  sleep  quietly,  my 
dear  Caleb,"  she  said,  "  and  it  is  not  kind  of  me  to 
disturb  you,  but  it  is  the  last  night,  perhaps  it  is  the 
last  time." 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  so,  dear  mother  ! "  I  replied. 

"  Ah,  my  child  I  you  are  young  and  full  of  health. 
Hope  is  proper  for  the  young,  and  so  is  resignation 
for  the  aged.  I  am  advanced  in  years,  and  death  is 
my  natural  expectation.  The  old  should  always  be 
ready.  I  am  grateful  for  past  good,  nor  do  I  murmur 
on  my  own  account  at  the  impending  evil.  Yes,  this 
may  be  the  last  time ;  and  if  it  be — it  is  on  your 
account,  dear  boy,  that  I  am  anxious  and  disturbed. 
When  I  am  gone,  I  trust  that  Heaven  will  be  your 
shield  against  the  danger  that  hangs  over  you." 

"  Dearest  mother!"  I  exclaimed,  somewhat  alarmed, 
"  what  has  happened,  and  what  evil  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Are  you  not  about  to  leave  us  ? — am  I  not  to 
lose  you?" 

"  I  trust  not,  dear  mother.  You  magnify  my 
dangers.  I  am  not  the  first  who  has  changed  his 
home  for  college  rooms,  and  returned  a  better  and 
a  happier  man." 

"  Yours  is  not  a  common  case,  Caleb,"  answered 
my  mother,  gazing  at  me  steadfastly,  and  in  a  tone 
that  reminded  me  at  once  of  a  strong  peculiarity  in 


CAL^B  STUKELY.  1 1 

her  character,  and  convinced  me  that  she  was  on  the 
present  occasion  labouring  under  its  influence. 

I  have  abeady  hinted  that  my  parents  had  deep  and 
settled  notions  of  religion  ;  both  their  principles  and 
their  habits  were  those  of  sincerely  pious  people. 
But  there  was  this  difference  to  be  observed  in  them. 
My  father  was  a  man  of  vigorous  common  sense.  His 
understanding  masculine  and  clear.  He  acknowledged, 
unreservedly,  every  article  of  the  Bible,  because,  in 
the  first  instance,  he  believed  implicitly  that  the  Bible 
was  a  revelation  from  his  Creator  and  God.  Nothing, 
however  extraordinary,  could  be  too  extraordinary  for 
its  Author,  w^ho  was  himself  beyond  human  grasp  and 
comprehension.  But  he  advanced  no  further.  He 
denied  to  inferior  powers  what  belongs  essentially  and 
only  to  the  Highest.  By  this  distinction,  healthy 
religion  was  in  his  mind  opposed  to  superstition  and 
fanaticism.  He  deemed  that  the  confines  of  all  three 
almost  trenched  upon  one  another ;  and  that,  to  be 
secure,  it  was  necessary  that  the  faith  of  the  believer 
should  stand  upon  its  ground  firm  and  unyielding. 

My  mother  was  more  supple. — In  the  depths  of 
her  woman's  heart  had  grown  up  a  superstructure  of 
belief  that  interfered  with,  although  it  could  not  be 
averred  that  it  disfigured,  the  purer  creed  beneath. 
Whilst  the  former  cast  a  shadow,  the  latter  shone  in 
bright  relief.  Without  any  exertion  of  her  own,  there 
had  sprung  up  within  her  an  involuntary  but  fixed  faith 
in  the  agencies  of  external  nature — a  belief  in  the 


12  CALEB  STUKELY. 

miraculous  properties  of  omens,  foretokens,  signs,  and 
particular  events;  all  of  which  she  conceived  to  be 
the  instruments  by  which  invisible  powers  make 
known  the  will  and  purposes  of  the  Creator. 

"  Yours  is  not  a  common  case,  Caleb,"  she  repeated 
with  earnestness.  "  Of  seven  children  you  are  my 
last.  Six  had  I,  blooming  as  the  rose,  full  of  promise 
and  of  strength ;  but  the  Lord  said,  '  /  icill  hrincf 
down  their  strength  to  the  earth"* — and  they  perished 
one  by  one,  lovely  and  innocent  as  they  were.  When 
all  were  gone,  and  I  :was  left  sorrowful  and  comfort- 
less, mourning  my  young  ones  like  Rachel  of  old,  you 
were  sent,  '  that  I  might  refrain  my  voice  from  weep- 
ing^ and  mine  eyes  from  tears^  You  came  to  me  in  the 
midst  of  desolation  and  distress :  upon  the  eve  of  your 
birth,  my  mother  died  ;  and  the  shock  I  suffered  from 
that  event,  brought  you  to  life  a  weakly  infant." 

I  had  never  seen  my  poor  mother  so  excited,  and  I 
could  not  help  listening  to  her  with  apprehension  and 
alarm. 

"  In  the  hour  of  your  birth,"  she  proceeded,  "  I 
had  already  delivered  you  to  the  fate  which  seemed 
attached  to  my  offspring.  Six  had  departed  from  me, 
by  nature  strong  and  hardy.  Could  I  hope  to  spare 
the  delicate  and  untimely  little  one  that  now  nestled 
in  my  bosom  ?  I  did  not  believe  it.  I  did  not  ask  it 
as  a  boon  from  Heaven  ;  I  prayed  only  for  resignation 
and  grace  to  support  me  through  the  new  temptation. 
To  my  dehght  and  astonishment,  you  thrived.     By 


CALEB  STUKELY.  13 

a  miracle,  the  last  and  weakest  shoot  took  root  and 
prospered.  O  Caleb  !  I  hardly  knew  a  mother's 
love  till  thou  wert  given  to  me  a  second  time.  Never, 
since  the  birth  of  my  first-born,  had  I  been  so  truly 
happy.  But  it  was  a  dream,  and  I  awoke  from  it  to 
greater  sorrow  and  to  deeper  trouble.  My  nurse,  she 
who  had  charge  of  you  and  me,  when  both  of  us  were 
helpless,  had  attended  me  with  all  my  children.  She 
was  an  uncommon  woman — one  to  whom  Providence 
had  given,  in  compensation  for  worldly  losses  and 
calamity,  a  mind  of  masculine  strength  and  energy. 
It  was  a  lesson  to  behold  her,  with  sorrow  heavy 
enough  to  crush  her,  standing  erect  upon  the  earth, 
fearless  and  unscathed  in  spirit — nothing  could  bend 
her.  Her  unfortunate  condition  had  originally  attract- 
ed me  towards  her.  She  had  known  better  days ;  and 
I  sympathized  with  her,  whilst,  I  confess,  I  was  often 
chilled  and  terrified  by  what  appeared  to  me  the 
unwomanly  iciness  of  her  disposition.  She  had  no 
good  words  for  mankind,  nor,  to  speak  truth,  any  that 
were  evil ;  she  spake  but  little  at  any  time.  A  recital 
of  misery  would  move  her  to  no  compassion,  and  tales 
of  goodness  and  charity  would  bring  but  smiles  and 
sneers  upon  her  countenance.  I  cannot  tell  why  it 
was,  that  in  spite  of  her  harsh  and  rigid  character,  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  part  with  her ;  perhaps  it 
was  because  I  was  her  only  friend,  and  knew  she  was 
attached  to  me,  and  to  no  one  in  the  world  besides. 
She  was  a  clever  and  well-informed  woman,  and  occu- 


14  CALEB  STUKELY. 

pied  herself  much  with  reading.  She  had  a  knowledge 
of  the  Latin  language,  and  possessed  mysterious  books, 
in  the  perusal  of  which  she  took  the  deepest  interest. 
By  this  strange  woman,  Caleb,  the  slender  beam  of 
joy  that  shone  upon  your  cradle  was  excluded  and 
destroyed." 

*'Byher?     How?" 

"  It  was  on  the  morning  of  her  departure  that  she 
came  into  my  room,  with  a  countenance  even  more 
austere  than  usual.  You  were  asleep  in  the  cot ;  she 
took  the  covering  from  your  face,  and  looked  upon 
you  for  some  time. 

"  '  The  child  breathes  hard,'  she  said  at  length. 

"  '  Ah,  Deborah ! '  I  replied,  '  I  do  implore  you  to 
have  mercy,  and  be  silent.  Let  this  child  sleep  in 
peace.' 

"  '  What ! '  she  exclaimed,  '  have  I  prophesied  so 
ill  before,  that  you  should  hesitate  to  trust  me  now  ? 
Have  I  not  spoken,  and  has  it  not  come  to  pass  ? — of 
which  of  your  children  have  I  said  "  so  shall  it  he"  and 
it  has  proved  otherwise  ?  I  have  read  the  fate  of  this 
one  too,  and  you  must  know  it  before  I  leave  you.' 

"  I  was  overwhelmed  with  grief  by  the  announce- 
ment. It  was  true  that  she  had  previously  foretold 
the  death  of  my  children,  and  at  a  time  when  their 
cheeks  were  of  the  colour  of  the  peach,  and  their  little 
limbs  glowed  with  health.  I  smiled  at  her  prophecies 
— but  they  came  to  pass.  Oh  !  how  my  blood  chilled 
as  she  gazed  upon  you,  and  I  sat  weeping  before  her 


CALEB  STUKELY.  15 

"  '  Be  a  woman!'  she  exclaimed,  «  and  wet  your 
cheeks  no  more.  If  you  love  this  tender  thing,  listen 
to  me.  Whence  and  how  my  knowledge  is  acquired, 
it  cannot  concern  you  to  hear ;  hut  this  you  must  know. 
Over  this  child's  head  hang  difficulties,  and  dangers, 
and  sorrows — sorrows*  even  unto  death — if  the  hours 
be  not  watched,  and  the  fatal  influences  averted  ? ' 

"  <  What  is  to  be  done  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  Watchfulness  and  care  at  the  appointed  seasons.' 

"  I  implored  her  to  speak  more  fully,  and  she  uttered 
these  words — 

"  '  He  is  a  seventh  months'  child,  your  seventh 
born,  brought  to  light  on  the  seventh  day  of  the  seventh 
month,  and  in  a  year  of  sevens.  These  tilings  happen 
not  by  chance.  The  future  destiny  of  such  a  one  is 
fixed.  His  journey  is  through  thorny  passages.  Mark 
me  well — If  this  boy  escapes  with  life  his  seventh, 
fourteenth,  and  twenty-first  years,  he  will  live  to  a  good 
old  age,  and  be  a  joy  to  all  who  hold  relation  with  him. 
But  the  chances  are  against  him  as  a  thousand  to  one. 
If  he  survive,  he  will  have  surmounted  obstacles  over 
which  only  celestial  aid  can  carry  him.  At  the  event- 
ful periods  do  not  you  fail  to  be  with  him,  that  he  may 
be  protected  by  your  motherly  solicitude,  and  have 
the  advantage  of  your  unceasing  prayers  to  Heaven  on 
his  behalf.' 

"  She  said  no  more,  but  left  me  within  an  hour, 
plunged  in  the  deepest  affliction.  I  have  never  seen 
her  since ;  I  heard  that  she  quitted  London  shortly 


16  CALEB  STUKELY. 

afterwards,   but    had    gone    no    one    could   tell   me 
whither. 

"  Ah,  Caleb,  how  carefully  did  I  nurse  and  bring 
you  up  !  Your  seventh  year  came,  and  you  did  not 
quit  my  sight.  It  was  a  bitter  year  for  you.  You 
fell  sick,  and  we  despaired  of  you;  but  I  prayed  for 
the  intervention  of  your  Maker,  and  you  were  spared. 
Seven  years  elapsed,  and  again  we  were  threatened 
with  the  loss  of  you.  You  grew  fast,  and  your  frame 
w^as  weak.  In  your  fourteenth  year  I  saw  you  lan- 
guishing; the  doctors -looked  at  you,  and  said — it  was 
a  pity  so  fair  a  boy  should  be  so  soon  a  suiferer.  Their 
language  gave  but  little  hope,  and  their  sad  looks  none 
— still  /  had  hope.  You  had  been  before  preserved, 
and  I  redoubled  my  care  and  my  exertions.  For  one 
whole  year  I  was  your  anxious  nurse  and  constant 
companion — do  you  remember  it,  dear  child  ?  At  the 
end,  God  answered  my  incessant  supplications,  and 
gave  you  back  to  me — a  vigorous  youth.  But  the 
danger  is  not  yet  overcome.  In  three  years  it  will 
arise  again,  and  oh,  whither  will  you  flee  if  I  am  in 
the  grave  ?  I  could  not  rest  this  night  until  I  had  told 
you  all ;  and  now,  Caleb,  I  do  beg  of  you  to  be  reli- 
gious and  good,  and  to  love  your  mother,  who  loves 
you  better — oh,  how  much  better  ! — than  herself.  If 
you  attend  to  what  I  say,  I  shall  be  sure  you  love  me. 
Should  I  be  no  more —  Heaven  grant  it  may  be  other- 
wise ! — let  your  twenty-first  year  be  passed  under  this 
roof,  and  with  your  father ;  if  that  too  may  not  be — 


CALEB  STUKELT.  17 

for  who  shall  read  the  hidden  book  of  fate  ? — promise 
me  to  submit  to  the  directions  of  him  to  whom  this 
letter  is  addressed."  With  these  words  my  mother 
placed  a  small  packet  in  my  hands. 

"  Rest  assured,  dear  mother,"  I  replied,  "  your 
wish  shall  be  complied  with ;  but  let  us  look  with 
confidence  to  that  good  Providence  which  has  sup- 
ported us  to  this  very  hour." 

"  I  do,  I  do  indeed,  dear  boy — I  have  told  you  all, 
and  I  rely  upon  your  word.  Let  no  circumstance 
prevent  the  fulfilment  of  it.  Now,  I  leave  you ;  com- 
pose yourself  to  sleep,  and  in  the  morning  I  shall  see 
you  again." 

My  mother  left  me,  and,  dwelling  upon  the  curious 
history  she  had  communicated,  I  once  more  sought 
repose.  I  knew  her  weakness,  and  the  recital  had 
caused  me  no  alarm.  I  felt  that  I  had  done  right  to 
leave  her  own  impressions  undisturbed.  My  scepti- 
cism would  but'  have  set  her  heart  bleeding  afresh. 
God  bless  her  ! — it  was  a  mother's  to  the  very  core. 

The  morning  came — a  lovely  one.  The  city  itself 
looks  fresh  and  happy  when  the  sun  smiles  upon  it, 
and  lights  up  its  narrow  streets.  The  spirits  of  the 
passengers  are  buoyant,  too,  in  spite  of  the  heavy 
burden  of  care  which  they  doom  themselves  to  carry. 
I  have  often  remarked  on  a  May  morning,  when  light 
and  warmth  are  on  the  ground,  and  fresh  breezes 
purify  the  air,  the  springy  step  and  the  erect  gait  of 
men  who  have  forgotten  for  an  hour  that  they  are 

VOL.  I.  B 


18  CALEB  STUKELT. 

bondmen,  whilst  their  eyes  glance  to  the  stripe  of  blue 
heaven  above  them,  and  they  tread  the  ground  with 
the  almost-forgotten  elasticity  of  youth.  The  effect 
of  this  spirit-stirring  morning  reached  also  me.  I 
forgot  my  sadness ;  I  longed  to  be  on  the  spot  to  which 
I  was  hastening,  and  to  commence  those  operations 
which  were  delightful  to  me ;  chiefly  in  respect  of  the 
joy  they  would  bring  to  the  aged  hearts  of  my  dear 
parents.  True,  a  tear  started  now  and  then  into  my 
eye,  but  it  was  one  of  pleasure  and  of  glowing  affec- 
tion, and  it  sanctified  the  many  and  virtuous  resolves 
which,  one  after  another,  were  silently  registered  in 
my  bosom. 

It  was  past  eight  o'clock — at  nine,  the  Cambridge 
Intelligence  left  the  Inn,  which  was  distant  about  a 
mile  from  our  dwelling.  My  father  called  me  to  him. 
"  Caleb,"  he  said,  "  your  time  with  us  is  nearly  expired 
— here  is  a  letter  for  you,  which  you  may  read  at  your 
leisure.  Take  care  of  yourself,  and  may  God  send 
you  back  in  health  and  safety !  You  will  write  to  us 
often." 

As  he  spoke,  my  mother  entered  the  counting-house 
in  which  we  were,  and  she  looked  as  if  she  had  slept 
but  little.  My  father  changed  his  tone,  and  called 
briskly  to  his  clerk,  with  whom,  for  some  time,  he  held 
a  conversation  on  matters  connected  with  his  business. 
In  the  presence  of  my  mother,  he  w^ould  scarcely  make 
any  reference  to  me  or  my  proceedings.  The  clock 
struck  half-past  eight — "  Now,  lad,"  he  exclaimed, 


CALEB  STUKELY.  19 

hastening  from  the  room,  "  kiss  your  mother,  and  let 
us  begone."  I  turned  to  take  leave  of  her  whom  I 
had  never  left  before — my  mother,  whom  I  loved  so 
well.  But  ah  !  I  could  not — I  kissed  her,  and  I  sobbed 
on  her  bosom,  and  she  pressed  me  to  hers,  and  cried 
bitterly. 

"  Good  boy,  good  boy  !  "  she  said  through  her  tears 
— "  Heaven  protect  you,  my  dear  and  only  child  ! " 

I  dragged  myself  from  her. 

"  Stay,  Caleb,"  she  cried  out,  "  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten. Take  this,"  and  she  gave  me  a  pocket-book, 
"  and  remember  your  promise.  Good-by,  now.  May 
God  bless  you  for  ever,  my  darling  child ! " 

My  father,  and  a  man  carrying  my  trunk,  had  already 
departed.  I  followed  and  overtook  them.  Instinc- 
tively 1  turned  my  head  and  looked  back  upon  our 
dwelling.  My  mother  was  at  the  door,  she  observed 
my  movement,  and  beckoned  me  a  last  farewell. 

I  turned  the  street,  and  lost  sight  of  her  for  ever. 

Alas  !  why  does  the  memory  of  the  past  start  up, 
like  ghosts,  to  alarm  and  terrify  us  ! 

The  inn  from  which  I  was  to  set  out  was  full  of  life 
and  bustle.  The  heavy  coach  already  stood  before 
the  inn  yard.  The  driver  was  receiving  his  last  direc- 
tions in  the  house,  and  men  were  busy  in  the  disposal 
and  securing  of  the  passengers'  luggage.  My  spirits 
again  failed  me.  The  activity  there,  the  sunshine,  and 
the  happy  looks  of  men,  contrasted  with  the  low  and 
oppressive  feeling  that  came  over  me,  but  could  not 


20  CALEB  STUKELT. 

remove  it.  My  father  remained  at  my  side,  silent  and 
moody.  My  hand  was  held  in  his,  which  trembled 
exceedingly. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  you  wish  to  say,  father  ? "  I 
enquired.     "  We  shall  soon  start  now." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied ;  "  come  hither."  He  took  me 
through  the  yard,  at  the  end  of  which  an  obscure 
passage  led  to  a  set  of  stables.  He  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  it,  and  looking  about,  as  if  to  be  assured  of 
privacy,  he  pressed  his  manly  lips  to  my  cheeks,  and 
kissed  me  in  all  the  passionate  expression  of  his  un- 
selfish fatherly  affection.  "  May  God  Almighty  bless 
you,  my  dear  Caleb,  and  keep  you  pure  !  He  knows 
how  much  I  love  you."  As  he  spoke,  he  wept  like  a 
child.  We  returned  silently  down  the  yard.  The 
ostler  ran  to  us. 

"  Are  you  the  other  inside,  sir  ?  Coach  is  waiting." 
I  nodded  yes.  The  man  called  to  the  coachman,  who 
had  already  taken  his  seat.  I  entered  the  lumbering 
vehicle,  and  as  we  quitted  the  inn,  with  as  brisk  a 
flourish  as  the  driver  could  command,  I  observed  my 
honoured  parent  turning,  with  a  slow  and  mournful 
gait,  once  more  his  steps  towards  home. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  could  rouse  myself  from 
the  extreme  despondency  into  which  the  circumstances 
of  the  morning  had  subdued  me.  My  head  hung  lan- 
guidly down,  and  my  eye  wandered  over  the  straw  that 
was  strewed  at  the  bottom  of  the  coach,  and  which 
served  as  a  carpet  for  the  travellers'  feet,   until  it 


CALEB  STUKELY.  21 

became  familiar  with  every  wisp.  My  mind  occupied 
itself  with  the  bed-side  scene  of  the  preceding  night, 
the  happiness  of  my  early  days,  and  the  prospect  that 
was  opening  before  me.  I  dreamt  of  many  things; 
whilst,  in  and  above  every  thing,  sprung  up  visions  of 
home,  and  of  the  beloved  couple  who  presided  over  its 
placid  doings.  In  every  dazzling  plan  that  imagina- 
tion reared  of  the  future,  the  two  objects  of  my  entire 
and  ineffable  love  held  the  chiefest  place,  and  were  the 
brightest  parts. 

The  country  on  every  side,  at  the  period  I  speak  of, 
was  nearer  to  London  by  some  miles  than  it  is  now. 
When  I  roused  myself  from  my  reverie,  we  had 
reached  the  green  fields  and  thick  hedges,  the  waving 
trees  and  the  blessed  open  sky;  and  nature,  in  her 
unspeakable  loveliness  and  simplicity,  shed,  as  is  her 
wont,  an  unseen  healing  power  over  my  troubled 
spirits.  The  weight  became  lighter  on  my  heart,  and 
my  thoughts  gradually  assumed  a  more  cheerful  tone. 
I  took  the  letter  from  my  pocket,  which  my  father, 
when  he  quitted  the  house,  had  placed  in  my  hand.  I 
now  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows : — 
"  My  dearest  boy, 

"  If  I  have  said  little  to  you  on  the  subject  of  your 
present  removal  from  us,  it  is  not  that  I  have  thought 
lightly  of  it,  or  that  I  have  not  felt  as  your  father  con- 
cerning you.  With  my  parting  blessing,  receive  these 
my  parting  words.  You  have  a  tender  mother,  Caleb. 
Rebecca  loved  not  her  Jacob  better  than  she  does  you 


22  CALEB  STUKELY. 

— her  youngest  born.  You  do  not  know,  indeed,  how 
much  you  owe  her.  She  has  nursed  and  cared  for  you 
with  an  untiring  spirit.  Before  you  could  understand 
the  obUgations  and  duties  of  a  child,  she  had  accom- 
plished for  you  more  than  a  life  of  love  and  obedience 
can  repay.  You  were  a  delicate  and  sickly  infant ; 
and  but  for  the  ceaseless  watchings  which  seemed 
never  too  long  for  the  motherly  heart,  you  would  not 
be  alive  this  day  to  hear  how  much  you  are  her  debtor. 
In  boyhood,  your  violent  and  passionate  temperament, 
which  threatened  not  only  your  own  happiness,  but 
that  of  all  who  loved  you,  was  checked  and  corrected, 
and,  I  confidently  trust,  eventually  expelled,  by  her 
enduring  patience  and  self-denial.  As  you  have  grown, 
who  but  she  has  been  about  you,  like  a  guardian  angel, 
rendering  joyous,  and  almost  sanctifying,  the  hours  of 
your  life  ?  You  should  be  moved  by  such  affection,  as 
I  am  sure  you  will  be :  yet  remember,  Caleb,  you  are 
still  young,  and  emotion  is  natural ;  and  because  it  is 
natural,  there  is  danger  lest  it  may  pass  away  with  the 
occasion,  and  be  forgotten.  But  I  look  for  better 
things  from  you.  I  have  described  your  mother,  and 
the  claim  she  has  upon  you.  You  have  now  left  her, 
and  be  sure  if  you  bring  sorrow  upon  her  aged  head, 
there  will  be  a  deep  and  lasting  retribution. 

"  I  confide  in  you,  my  child,  to  the  uttermost ;  still, 
whilst  I  concede  to  you  a  more  extensive  knowledge 
of  books  than  your  unlettered  parent,  I  have  the 
experience  of  years  and  the  knowledge  of  men,  which 


CALEB  STUKELY.  23 

you  must  yet  obtain.  The  world  into  which  you  are 
entering  is  full  of  temptation,  and  abounds  with  danger. 
Be  firm,  and  you  travel  on  unhurt.  Yield  to  the  first, 
although  the  smallest  and  scarce-audible,  whisperings 
of  human  passion,  and  you  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
Wicked  One.  A  university  is  a  commonwealth,  where 
many  vicious  as  well  as  many  honourable  spirits  are 
collected.  It  is  the  nature  of  the  fallen  to  seek  out 
greedily  the  yet  pure,  and  to  endeavour,  by  every 
means,  to  drag  them  down  from  the  bright  eminence 
which  they  themselves  have  lost  for  ever.  Their  lips 
are  honied,  and  their  w^ords  sweet  poison.  They  are 
most  insidious  in  their  temptings ;  but,  if  you  love  life 
and  would  enjoy  it,  avoid  them,  though  they  come 
with  all  the  power  and  the  fascination  of  the  serpent. 
All  that  is  left  me  now  is,  to  recommend  you  to  the 
care  of  Him  who  has  provided  for  us  hitherto,  and  to 
the  guidance  of  the  good  principle  he  has  implanted 
in  your  bosom.  You  may  rely,  without  fear  of  dis- 
appointment, upon  the  judgment  of  your  own  good 
conscience,  and,  so  long  as  you  live,  upon  the  affec- 
tionate regard  of  your  loving  parent." 

I  had  read  this  epistle  for  the  fifth  or  sixth  time, 
when  I  was  disturbed  by  what  sounded  to  me  like  a 
suppressed  laugh,  and  a  voice  exclaiming,  just  suffi- 
ciently loud  for  me  to  hear  it,  the  single  monosyllable 
— "  Fresh." 

I  raised  my  eyes  from  the  letter,  and  became  con- 
scious of  the  presence  of  other  individuals.    Imagining 


24  CALEB  STUKELY. 

for  an  instant  that  every  emotion  I  experienced,  and 
every  thought  that  ran  through  my  brain,  had  been 
manifest  to  strangers,  I  bhished  deeply ;  but  I  reco- 
vered myself  quickly,  and  began  to  observe  more  parti- 
cularly the  countenances  of  my  companions.  Which 
of  them  it  was  that  spoke  and  laughed,  I  could  not 
decide ;  for  the  eyes  of  all  were  at  the  instant  turned 
from  me,  and  there  was  neither  smile,  nor  expression 
of  any  other  kind,  in  the  faces  of  any  that  might  lead 
to  detection. 

Our  coach  contained  six  inside  passengers.  The 
seat  opposite  my  own  was  occupied  by  two  young 
men,  and  a  man  somewhat  advanced  in  years.  The 
former  possessed  a  gentlemanly  air,  and  were  appa- 
rently well  bred.  I  determined  at  once  that  they  were 
bound  for  the  same  place  and  employment  as  myself. 
They  were  both  dressed  with  remarkable  neatness, 
and  had  altogether  that  comfortable  and  easy  manner, 
which  indicates,  in  most  instances,  the  enjoyment  of 
good  circumstances,  if  not  of  actual  independence. 
Their  looks  were  exceedingly  grave ;  but  the  solemnity 
of  one,  at  least,  seemed  false,  and  to  exist  rather  in 
spite  of  his  nature,  than  as  the  proper  exponent  of  it. 
There  was  a  frowning  eyebrow,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
a  small  and  laughing  eye,  sparkling  with  joyousness 
that  no  effort  could  conceal ;  and  although  a  demure 
and  pursy  turn  was  forced  upon  the  lip,  it  had  to 
struggle  for  the  mastery  with  a  sly  upward  curl,  by 
which  it  was  not  difficult  to  perceive,  it  must  eventu- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  25 

ally  be  repulsed  and  overcome.  These  observations 
apply  to  the  younger  of  the  two  travellers,  between 
whom  there  subsisted  a  marked  resemblance.  He 
might  have  been  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  a 
year  or  two  the  junior  of  his  companion,  As  I  con- 
tinued my  observation,  I  could  not  but  suspect  that  to 
him  were  to  be  traced  the  previous  laugh  and  excla- 
mation; and  I  suffered  a  pang  of  boyish  uneasiness, 
as  I  concluded  that  I  had  been  the  cause  and  subject 
of  them.  He  was  handsome,  and  his  face  beamed 
with  confidence  and  delight.  In  spite  of  his  assumed 
seriousness,  I  pronounced  at  a  glance,  that  good-nature 
and  he  were  by  no  means  strangers  to  one  another. 

The  elderly  gentleman,  who  sat  next  to  them  in 
the  corner,  was  a  very  different  order  of  being.  He 
looked  about  fifty  years  of  age,  but  he  might  have 
been  some  years  older  or  younger.  He  had  that 
peculiar  mien  which  makes  it  a  puzzle  to  fix  the 
precise  age  of  an  individual.  There  was  a  glaring 
discrepancy  between  the  glossy  and  black  curly  hair 
which  ornamented  his  head,  and  the  deep  furrows  and 
expressive  lines  that  time  or  trouble  had  ploughed 
along  his  cheek.  Again,  the  vivacity  and  fire  of  an 
eye  which  moved  with  the  quickness  and  sharpness  of 
youth,  seemed  hardly  to  belong  to  the  dull  and  heavy- 
lipped  mouth,  that,  hanging  down,  discovered  almost 
toothless  gums,  and  denoted  either  supreme  stolidity 
or  the  giving  way  of  years. 

If  it  were  a  task  to  discover  this  good  man's  age, 

VOL.  I.  c 


26  CALEB  STUKELY. 

it  was  not  a  whit  easier  to  give  him  a  position  in  societ5'. 
He  did  not  belong  evidently  to  that  which  is  popularly 
called  the  loicer  order,  and  he  w  as  scarcely  respectable 
or  clean  enough  to  be  ranked  in  the  middle  class. 
Had  there  been  a  mean  between  the  two  he  would 
have  settled  there ;  but,  in  the  absence  of  this,  he 
represented  the  extremes  of  both.  You  might  note 
in  him,  as  it  were,  the  last  degree  of  the  one  class, 
and  the  first  of  the  other.  His  whole  person  was 
characterized  by  dirtiness.  His  face,  hands,  (he  wore 
no  gloves,)  clothes,  and  boots — all  were  dirty.  His 
clothes  were  made,  perhaps,  from  the  best  w^ool,  and 
had  the  neatest  workmanship,  and  if  brushed,  and  fitted 
to  a  body  to  which  cleanliness  was  an  article  not  of 
the  least  consideration  in  life,  might  have  challenged 
comparison  with  the  choicest.  The  hand,  too,  relieved 
of  its  filthy  covering,  w  ould  not  have  disgraced  a  lady 

for  it  was  small  and  well-shapen.     The  complexion 

of  this  curious  person  was  a  dark  brown,  and  looked 
the  browner  by  reason  of  his  universal  fault.  To 
conclude  this  short  sketch  of  him,  I  must  add  that  his 
hair,  to  which  I  have  already  referred,  was  heightened 
in  its  beauty  by  an  exuberant  plenty  of  strongly-scented 
oil,  his  dirty  shirt  was  decorated  with  a  massive  brooch, 
his  nose  was  large  and  Roman,  and  all  his  features 
were  strongly  stamped  with  that  peculiar  expression, 
which  is  recognised  over  the  whole  world  under  the 
name  of— Jewish.  By  way  of  postscript  (for  I  dis- 
covered this  afterwards)  let  me  say,  that  his  height 


CALEB  STUKELY.  27 

was  five  feet  six  or  thereabouts,  and  he  was  of  a 
slender  make. 

The  remainmg  two  travellers,  they  who  shared  my 
seat,  were  a  mother  and  daughter  travelling  to  Lynn, 
in  Norfolk.  I  need  not  refer  to  them  further.  We 
said  little  as  we  journeyed,  and  parted  company  at 
Cambridge.  I  have  never  seen  them  since.  The  old 
lady  must  have  long  since  mouldered  in  the  grave ; 
and  the  blooming  lass,  who  looked  so  bashful  and  so 
coy,  who  could  not  choose  but  blush  and  bend  her 
head  beneath  the  over-zealous  gaze  of  that  tall  hand- 
some youth — is  she  yet  living  ?  Has  she  grown  grey 
— the  blossom  brushed  from  off  her  cheek  ?  Age  will 
not  spare  it ;  and  the  smooth  soft  skin,  so  very  smooth 
was  hers,  is  it  pinched  up  and  withered  ?  Does  her 
eye  lack  lustre  now,  and  is  it  turned  as  mine  is — back 
upon  the  past  ?  Pray  God  the  retrospect  is  fair,  and 
yields  a  balm  to  sooth  the  swift  descent — a  joy  that  is 
at  once  a  promise  and  an  earnest  of  the  future. 

The  Israelitish  gentleman  soon  became  an  active 
agent  in  the  dismissal  of  certain  large  pieces  of  dry 
bread,  which  he  brought  from  his  pocket,  one  after 
another,  and  ate  with  amazing  rapidity.  He  remained 
silent  the  while ;  but  as  he  munched,  and  dropped  the 
crumbs  upon  his  neighbour's  knee,  he  drew  his  breath 
deeply  through  his  nose,  which  again  discharged  it  in 
a  disagreeable  sound,  something  between  sniffino-  and 
snoring.  The  younger  of  the  two  young  men  at  length 
interfered. 


28  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  You  are  a  queer  brick,  Levy,"  lie  said,  in  a  tone 
that  predicated  acquaintance ;  "  but  I  advise  you  to 
have  your  breakfast  next  time  at  home,  and  what  you 
can't  eat  give  to  the  birds.     I'm  not  hungr)-." 

"Mishter  Temples,"  answered  the  person  addressed, 
gulping  down  a  mouthful,  "  you  are  sich  a  funny  gen- 
tlemansh  ;  you  alvays  makes  your  vits  vit  poor  Levy. 
I  tink  if  Levy  vas  dead  you  vouldn't  know  vot  to  do 
vit  yourself.  They  talk  of  you  at  Trinity  College 
from  morning  till  night ;  and  the  cook  tould  me  the 
other  day,  that  it  vas  a^  good  as  goold  to  him  ven  you 
vere  up,  for  the  cushtom  and  the  profits  rolled  in  like 
so  much  vater." 

This  was  spoken  with  so  curious  a  twang,  and  with 
so  deferential  an  air,  that  I  could  not  help  smiling, 
which  observing,  the  young  gentleman  turned  to  me, 
and,  with  a  polite  movement,  thus  accosted  me : — "  You 
are,  I  presume,  going  to  college,  and  should  by  all 
means  know  Mr  Solomon  Levy."  The  latter  gentle- 
man assumed  a  gesture  of  extreme  modesty.  "  He  is 
as  necessary  to  you  as  your  cap  and  gown,  and  in  every 
respect  as  useful.  The  mellowest  grape  of  Portugal, 
and  the  mildest  tobacco-leaf  of  America,  are  found 
with  him  ;  and  tin,  when  times  are  hard,  and  governors 
have  bled  their  last,  as  plentiful  as  in  the  sea-bound 
Cassiteridcs" 

The  elderly  gentleman  did  not  seem  to  under- 
stand altogether  the  point  and  meaning  of  this 
speech,  nor  in  truth  did  I;  but,  unwilling  to  acknow- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  29 

ledge  my  ignorance,  I  allowed  the  young  student  to 
proceed. 

"  I  will  not  say  that  my  friend  Levy,  like  the  Prince 
of  Denmark,  is  '  the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of 
form.'  No,  that  were  flattery.  But  he  hath  daughters, 
passing  fair  maids  of  Judah,  whose  bright  eyes  put 
out  all  lesser  orbs  of  light.  I've  seen  them  at  the 
county-ball,  as  Chaucer  says — 'the  silver  drops  all 
hanging  on  the  Lev — eV.'  But  they  were  paste,  as 
I've  often  said  before." 

"  Rale  shtones,"  interrupted  Mr  Levy  eagerly. 
"  Rale  shtones,  as  I  hoped  to  be  shaved  !" 

"  Well,  no  matter,  this  gentleman  may  indeed  con- 
sider it  a  lucky  day  that  brings  him  into  this  society. 
Sir,  you  must  allow  me  to  have  the  honour  of  the 
introduction.     Mr  Levy,  Mr ? 

"  Stukely." 

"  Mr  Levy,  Mr  Stukely." 

I  bowed  to  the  dirty  gentleman,  and  he  in  return 
smiled  rather  grimly  upon  me,  and  winked  his  eye  in 
token  of  admitted  friendship. 

"  Ah,"  pursued  the  collegian,  "  these  introductions 
are  the  bane  of  good  fellowship,  and  the  very  ruin  of 
Cambridge.  You  might  have  spent  a  life  in  the  place, 
and  yet  for  want  of  a  common  friend  have  been  igno- 
rant of  each  other's  existence.  Had  you  made  advances, 
indeed.  Levy  must  have  repelled  you;  for  where  custom 
becomes  inveterate,  it  robs  men  of  their  own  will,  and 
reduces  them  to  the  level  of  slaves." 


30  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  And  yet,  James/'  said  his  brother,  who  now  made 
himself  heard  for  the  first  time,  "  how  necessary  to  a 
well- constituted  society  is  this  social  arrangement ! 
What  a  protection  does  it  afford  to  the  retiring  and 
meek  from  the  intrusion  of  the  officious  !  How  else 
should  the  innocent  and  unwary  be  sheltered  from  the 
worldling  and  the  sharper?" 

"  True,  O  king!"  replied  the  common  friend;  '•  and 
therefore,  lest  Mr  Stukely  may  form  a  hasty  and 
incorrect  judgment  of  your  character,  let  me  at  once 
introduce  to  his  notice-^ny  worthy  elder  brother,  Mr 
WilUam  Temple.— Mr  Stukely,  Mr  William  Temple." 

Mr  William  Temple  grasped  my  hand,  and  assured 
me  that,  having  legally  acquired  the  pleasure  of  my 
acquaintance,  he  should  have  no  objection  in  becoming 
exceedingly  intimate. 

"  Do  you  go,"  enquired  Mr  James,  "  to  a  large 
college  ?  " 

"  I  have  entered  at  Trinity,"  was  my  reply. 

"  Ah,  low — shocking  low  !  Trinity  is  going  down 
very  fast.  The  market  is  overstocked,  as  they  say  in 
the  city.  They  have  sent  out  a  good  man  or  two, 
who,  I  should  guess,  have  bitten  all  the  paters  in 
existence ;  for  they  have  been  mad  about  Trinity  ever 
since.  No,  that  won't  do  at  all.  You  must  migrate 
to  Sidney — that's  the  college  !  Nobody  goes  there. 
Select  and  gentlemanly.  Nothing  snobbish.  Men 
are  friends  and  brothers — quite  a  little  family." 

"  Surely,   James,"  interposed   Mr  William  again, 


CALEB  STUKELY.  31 

"Mr  Stukely's  friends  have  well  considered  the  pro- 
priety of  their  step,  and  have  weighed  all  things  in  the 
balance.  There  are  both  advantages  and  disadvantages, 
and  reasons  both  positive  and  negative." 

"  Now  don't — there's  a  good  fellow,"  said  his  brother 
'in  a  tone  of  supplication.  "  You  must  know,  Mr 
Stukely,  that  they  call  my  brother  at  home  old  plus 
and  minus.  To  be  sure,  he  is  no  end  of  a  mathema- 
tician. He  was  three  months  dragging  over  the  j^oiis 
asinonim,  since  which  feat  he  has  become  so  close  a 
reasoner,  that  there  is  nothing  which  was  previously 
right  that  he  cannot  prove  now  to  be  decidedly  wrong. 
By  the  way,  are  you  for  classics  or  mathematics  ?" 

"  My  own  wishes,"  I  replied,  "  would  lead  me  to 
classics ;  but  my  father" — 

"  Your  what  ?  "  asked  Mr  James. 

« jNIy  father,  sir." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Why,  my  father,  sir,"  I  repeated,  somewhat  puz- 
zled. 

"  Ah  !  I  see  now,  I  had  forgotton.  You  mean  the 
governor.  You  speak  the  London  dialect.  We  get 
more  Doric  as  we  proceed.  The  word  father  is  less 
understood  now  every  stage  we  travel.  When  we 
arrive  at  Trumpington,  the  word's  obsolete.  Curious 
fact  that?" 

"  Remarkable,  indeed  ! "  I  added.  "  I  was  not  aware 
that,  so  near  to  the  metropolis,  so  emphatic  a  change 
obtained  in  our  language." 


32  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  rejoined  my  new  acquaintance. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  the  name  for  a  man  in  a  long 
blue  cloak  and  brass  buttons  being  hull-dog^  and  no-md- 
of-a-hrick  being  a  correct  translation  of  a  hard-reading 
man?" 

"  Strange  !  and  upon  what  theory  or  law  of  lan- 
guage is  it  supposed  that  such  changes  depend?"  I 
enquired,  and,  as  I  have  since  thought,  somewhat  con- 
ceitedly. 

"Ah,  there  you  stagger  me!"  replied  Mr  James. 
"  If  you  want  the  theory,  apply  next  door.  Now, 
William,  I  am  sure  you  must  know.  What's  the 
theory  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  the  gentleman  thus  appealed  to,  rising 
in  his  seat  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  shaking  the  vast  amount 
of  thought  that  he  carried  in  his  brain,  "  it  is  said — 
but  I  think  I  can  show  that  the  whole  of  the  argument 
is  not  susceptible  of  proof — that  although  there  are 
remains  of  the  ancient  Saxon  language  to  be  found  in 
London,  as  elsewhere  in  England,  yet  the  pure  first- 
hand and  only  superfine  Saxon  is  to  be  found  to 
perfection  in  Cambridge.  So  far  I  agree  with  the 
proposition.  But  to  account  for  this  it  is  argued,  that 
after  the  battle  of  Hastings,  Harold,  the  son  of  God- 
win, and  the  opponent  of  the  Conqueror,  escaped  with 
his  life,  and  sought  refuge  at  the  university,  where  he 
delivered  lectures  on  the  native  language  and  literature, 
became  proctor,  and  eventually  vice-chancellor ;  and 
that  the  genuine  vernacular  has  descended  to  us,  in 


CALEB  STUKELY.  33 

consequence  of  his  own  particular  dying  request,  that 
no  alteration  or  admixture  should  ever  be  allowed  by 
the  public  orator,  or  any  other  officer  of  the  university 
for  the  time  being.  You  see  this  statement  involves 
two  problems — 1st,  The  existence  of  lectures  at  the 
time  of  the  Conquest,  and  secondly.  The  existence  of 
Harold  as  professor  at  the  university.  Now  it  is  a 
self-evident  truth — or,  more  properly  speaking,  an 
axiom — that  the  university  did  not  exist  until  some 
centuries  after  the  death  of  Harold;  therefore  there 
was  no  university  at  the  time  of  the  battle  of  Hastings. 
Much  less  were  there  any  professorships  established, 
and  a  lectureship  on  the  native  language  and  literature 
is  equal  to  a  professorship ;  therefore  there  were  no 
lectures  at  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Again,  Harold, 
it  is  said,  was  professor  at  the  university  ;  but  it  has 
been  proved  that  there  was  no  university,  and,  a  for- 
tiori^ no  professorships.  But  Harold  icas  professor, 
which  is  absurd ;  therefore,  Harold  was  not  a  pro- 
fessor at  the  university — Q,uod  erat  demonstrandum^^ 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  speech,  the  mathematician 
looked  at  me  earnestly  for  moment,  and  then,  by  slow 
degrees,  resumed  his  original  state  of  reservedness — 
his  arms  folded,  and  his  head  falling  languidly  on  his 
chest.  Mr  Levy  looked  obliquely  at  him,  then  trium- 
phantly at  me,  and  treading  on  my  toe  at  the  same  . 
time,  seemed  to  enquire  what  might  be  my  opinion  of 
Mr  William  Temple — noic. 

My  respect  and  admiration  were  certainly  increased 


34  CALEB  STUKELY. 

for  a  man  who  could  thus  bring  to  bear  upon  the  most 
famihar  topics  the  formula  of  science,  and  who  evidently 
did  not  hesitate  to  reject  the  simplest  truth  until  it  had 
undergone  the  severe  scrutiny  of  his  very  exact  mind. 
The  allusion  which  his  brother  had  made  to  the  fifth 
proposition  of  Euclid,  I  regarded  as  a  mere  figure  of 
speech,  such  as  I  knew  to  be  often  employed  in  the 
best  possible  humour  against  great  minds.  The  airy 
disposition  of  Mr  James  imperceptibly  won  upon  me. 
I  looked  upon  him  as  one  to  whom  knowledge  came 
unsought,  and  of  its  ^wn  free-will,  whose  head  had 
became  a  storehouse  of  intellectual  acquirements  with- 
out labour  or  exertion — a  geniuS;  in  fact:  that  species 
of  humanity  which  I  had  often  heard  of,  but  had  never 
met  face  to  face  until  now.  Thus  was  there  also  a 
portion  of  reverence  mingled  with  the  familiar  delight 
with  which  I  listened  to  the  frank  and  friendly  com- 
munication of  Mr  James.  Even  Mr  Levy,  looked  up 
to  as  he  was  by  the  young  scholar,  acquired  a  rapidly 
growing  importance,  for  which  I  must  acknowledge  his 
language,  his  vulgar  looks,  and  his  dirty  appearance, 
could  not  offer  any  legitimate  or  corresponding  title. 
Amused  and  interested  by  all  my  companions,  the 
journey  was  any  thing  but  tedious  or  wearisome  ;  and 
before  we  reached  that  point  in  our  progress  at  which 
we  halted  for  refreshment,  my  animal  spirits,  which 
had  congealed  during  the  first  hours  of  the  morning, 
relaxed  and  grew  warm  beneath  the  sunny  influences 
which  had  so  unexpectedly  sprung  up. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  35 

Forty  years  ago,  the  traveller,  had  he  thought  fit, 
could  have  dispatched  steadily  the  four  diurnal  meals 
in  less  space  than  that  accorded  to  the  migratory  one. 
To-day  he  shall  pay  the  price  of  four,  and  not  have  half 
a  one.  Man  was  then  a  ruminating  animal.  The  loco- 
motive inoculation  had  not  yet  been  introduced.  The 
employment  and  the  necessity  of  carrier  pigeons  were 
not  superseded ;  and  the  speed  of  the  winds  and  the 
velocity  of  the  earth  had  not  ceased  to  be  subjects  of 
astonishment  and  awe.  In  those  days,  to  travel  was  in 
truth,  as  the  etymology  indicates,  to  labour  and  to  toil. 
Let  us  blot  out  the  word  from  the  vocabulary.  Men 
do  not  travel  now.  They  burst  through  the  air  with 
the  swiftness  of  the  bird,  without  a  gleam  of  its  enjoy- 
ment. Poor  age  of  hurry -skurry  !  The  elements  of 
happiness  are  not  found  in  thee.  No,  not  one :  and 
the  constant  desire  of  man's  heart,  since  his  first  fall, 
must  be  postponed  to  a  calmer  and  a  holier  day. 

The  five  inside  passengers  entered  the  inn  at  which 
we  stopped — Mr  Temple,  junior,  promising  himself  to 
have  no  mercy  on  the  various  dishes  which  were 
awaiting  the  honour  of  his  arrival.  Naturally  back- 
ward and  timid,  I  was,  on  this  particular  occasion,  not 
very  desirous  to  join  the  party.  I  could  feel  perfectly 
at  home  with  them  so  long  as  we  were  confined  to  the 
coach ;  but  the  very  instant  we  were  loosed  into  the  . 
world  again,  my  constitutional  bashfulness  at  once  re- 
stored our  previous  relation.  The  inn  had  a  picturesque 
situation.  On  one  side  of  it  flowed  a  transparent  stream, 


36  CALEB  STUKELT. 

and  to  the  other  was  attached  a  spacious  orchard,  on 
whose  smooth  sward  there  stood  the  finest  trees  I  had 
ever  beheld.  To  this  spot  I  directed  my  steps.  Born 
and  bred  in  London,  without  having  passed  two  weeks 
together  beyond  its  dusty  precincts — albeit  it  was  not 
the  huge  world  of  smoke  it  has  since  grown  to  be — I 
was,  at  this  period,  unacquainted  with  the  simplest 
flowers  of  the  field.  I  knew  of  nature  nothing  but  her 
loveliness,  and  the  glimpses  I  had  caught  had  made  me 
sensible  of  her  dominion.  Separated  from  the  orchard 
by  a  sunken  fence,  a  slowly-rising  meadow  spread  itself 
for  a  considerable  distance ;  and  beyond  it,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach,  were  rich  surfaces  of  cultivation — 
the  yellow  corn  standing  prominently  forward,  like 
patches  of  "  stationary  sunshine."  In  the  full  posses- 
sion of  health,  vigorous  and  young,  I  warmed  with 
ecstasy  as  I  gazed  upon  this  scene — common  and 
everyday  as  it  was — and  thanked  God  who  had  sup- 
plied me  with  a  capacity  of  enjoyment,  without  a  single 
sorrow  to  embitter  or  detract  from  it.  I  seated  myself 
beneath  the  foliage  of  a  chestnut  tree,  the  filaments  of 
whose  thick  blossoms  drooped  still  like  ringlets  from 
the  noble  leaves.  I  had  not  yet  opened  the  pocket- 
book  which  my  mother  had  placed  in  my  hands.  I  did 
so  now.  A  few  lines  had  been  hastily  written  on  the 
first  page.  She  bade  me  remember  the  conversation 
of  the  past  night,  and  to  think  seriously  of  her  parting 
words.  There  was  mention  made  also  of  a  bank-note 
for  fifty  pounds  which  she  had  placed  in  one  of  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  37 

pockets  for  my  private  use,  "  in  addition  to  the  sum 
which  my  father  would  allow  me  for  my  general  ex- 
penses." 

I  would  fain  ask  the  gentle  reader,  if  he  is  conscious 
of  no  one  short  hour  in  his  life  which  has  established 
for  itself  an  individuality  and  character  standing  from 
the  rest  of  time  apart;  and  if,  connected  with  this 
point  of  his  existence,  there  does  not  present  itself  to 
his  mind  a  scene  of  nature,  divided  from  all  other  scenes 
— one  bright  vision  of  time  and  place,  wherein  the  mind 
and  body  have  been  elate  and  joyous,  tuned  to  the 
harmonies  of  earth — where  human  happiness,  unlike 
herself,  has  lingered  till  her  shade  has  covered  the  fair 
dream,  and  preserved  it  from  the  common  wreck.  The 
orchard,  and  the  big  chestnut  tree,  and  every  circum- 
stance and  little  object  connected  with  the  breath  of 
time  snatched  from  that  day  so  many  years  ago,  be- 
come illuminated,  as  I  write,  with  the  feelings  they 
inspired ;  whilst  many  a  pleasure  since  looks  sad  and 
sickly,  or  else,  ephemeral  as  too  many  were,  has  long 
since  passed  into  oblivion. 

Kot  for  any  length  of  time  had  I  enjoyed  the  sweet 
communion  of  my  thoughts,  when  I  was  startled  from 
my  situation  by  a  voice  calling  my  name.  I  could  not 
mistake  the  accent.  I  raised  myself  from  the  ground, 
and  beheld  Mr  Levy  approaching  the  tree  with  rapid . 
strides.  When  he  found  I  observed  him,  he  walked 
more  slowly. 

"  Mishter  Shtukely,"  he  began,  "  they  are  all  eatirg 


S8  CALEB  STUKELY. 

avay  there  as  if  they  vere  shtarved.  If  you  are  fond 
of  cold  fowl,  upon  my  void  you  haven't  a  minute  to 
shpare.  That  young  Mishter  Temples  hasn't  said  a 
syllable  to  nobody  since  he  began,  and  is  biting  avay 
as  hard  as  ever.  He  has  a  most  uncommon  appetite  ! " 
"  Thank  you,  Mr  Levy.  I  am  not  disposed  to  eat;  but 
I  am  grateful,  nevertheless,  for  your  friendly  hint." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  a  vord  about  that ! "  he  replied ;  "  vy 
shouldn't  I  be  civil  ?  It  doesn't  cost  me  nothing.  In 
going  through  the  vorld,  Mr  Shtukely,  you  may  always 
tell  the  good  man  from-the  bad  man  by  that  'ere.  The 
good  man  is  ready  to  do  any  thing  for  another,  ven  it 
costs  him  nothing ;  but  the  bad  man  is  always  for  him- 
self, and  vouldn't  so  much  as  go  over  the  vay  for  his 
own  father." 

I  once  more  thanked  Mr  Levy  for  his  civility,  and 
begged  that  he  would  not  on  my  account  keep  from 
his  friends  or  his  inifinished  dinner. 

"  You  are  very  good  sir,"  said  the  gentleman,  "but 
my  rehgions  don't  allow  me  to  eat  that  sort  of  victuals, 
and  I  am  very  particular.  You  see  ve're  a  clean  peo- 
ple, and  are  forbid  to  eat  of  the  unclean  animals,  and 
the  nasty  mixtures  that  the  Christians — though  I  don't 
vish  to  be  rude — make  vith  their  fat  and  their  butter 
and  their  meat,  and  all  them  kind  of  nonsense.  Now 
you  vont  be  angry  vith  me,  if  I  tell  you  something — 
vill  you  ?  Veil  then,  do  you  know,  the  very  moment 
I  saw  you,  you  vun  my  heart — you  look  so  good  and 
innoshent.     But  you  must  take  care  of  yourself,  my 


CALEB  STUKELY.  ^9 

dear  boy — excuse  my  being  free ; — you  must  indeed. 
This  is  such  a  vicked  vurld,  and  it  ain't  every  body  that 
vill  give  you  the  benefit  of  his  experience ;  'cause  you 
see,  experience  is  something  like  shtock  in  trade  or 
capital,  and  after  thirty  or  forty  years  perhaps,  that's 
all  a  man  has  left  him  to  do  business  with.  I  daresay 
you've  got  a  father  and  a  mother — eh  ?  "  I  am  not 
sure  that  Mr  Levy  perceived  any  particular  change  in 
my  countenance  as  he  put  this  question  to  me ;  but 
without  permitting  me  to  answer,  he  continued — "  Veil, 
never  mind,  don't  tell  me,  don't  harrow  up.  I  know 
vot  it  is,  my  dear  boy,  to  have  a  good  father  and 
mother ;  yes,  and  to  leave  them  too,  and  to  be  turned 
into  the  vurld  among  strangers,  as  I  vas  at  a  tender 
age,  vith  nobody  to  take  care  of  my  morals  or  teach  me 
vat  vas  right,  except  the  nature  that  vas  born  vith  me. 
I  dare  say,  my  dear,  you've  got  plenty  of  money  to 

shpend — eh  ?  " 

"  My  father,  sir,  is  kind  and  liberal,  and" 

"Veil  now,  don't  tell  me,  I  von't  hear  a  vord.  It's  no 
business  of  mine.  Only  take  care  of  it,  my  dear  child, 
and  don't  shpend  it  like  a  narr*  You  must  excuse 
my  freedom ;  but  I  tould  you  before  I'm  quite  taken 
vith  you,  and  I  feel  like  your  father  ven  I  speak  to 
you.  Ven  you  get  to  Cambridge,  you  must  put  your 
money  into  the  hands  of  some  shteady  honesht  person 
that  knows  vot  the  vurld  is,  and  vill  put  you  in  the  vay 
of  laying  it  out  to  the  best  advantage.    Vas  you  reading 

*  Anglice — Fool. 


40  CALEB  STUKELY. 

a  book,  my  dear,  ven  I  came  up  ?  Ah,  vot  a  thing  it  is 
to  be  fond  of  reading !  Sometimes,  ven  I  sits  at  home, 
and  thinks  how  vicked  the  vurld  is,  I  think  I  should 
go  vild  if  it  vasn't  for  reading  the  newspapers,  vith 
the  lisht  of  bankrupts  and  all  the  polishe  news." 

Mr  Levy  had  touched  a  tender  chord,  and  I  an- 
swered him — "  Yes,  Mr  Levy,  I  was  perusing  a  most 
affectionate  letter  from  the  fondest  and  best  of  mothers. 
Look  here,  sir!"  I  exclaimed  warmly,  drawing  the  book 
from  my  pocket,  and  moved  even  to  tears;  "  this  is  her 
latest  gift.  Although  ^he  knew  I  had  no  need  of  it, 
and  was  amply  supplied,  with  her  own  hand,  and  with- 
out my  knowledge,  she  enclosed  this  note.  You  can 
understand  aad  appreciate  my  tears." 

"  I  vish  I  may  die  if  I  can't,  and  that's  the  long 
and  the  short  of  it,"  said  Mr  I^evy  passionately. 
"Now,  you  look  here,  Mr  Shtukely,  vat  I  shall  do. 
There's  three  pounds  of  smuggled  cigars  that  I  had 
put  by  expressly  for  Mishter  Temples.  I  charge  'em 
twenty  shillings  a-pound,  and  they're  vorth  forty  if 
they're  vorth  a  stiver.  I'll  break  my  vord  vith  him 
for  vonce,  if  I  never  do  another  shtroke  of  business 
vith  him,  and  that  vould  be  as  good  as  ruination  to 
me.  You  shall  have  them  every  vone  at  the  price.  I 
never  see  sich  a  model  of  a  good  boy  since  I  vas  born, 
and  it  sha'n't  go  vithout  its  revard,  or  else  Sol  Levy 
vill  know  the  reason  vy." 

Before  I  could  remonstrate  against  so  gi'eat  a  sacri- 
fice of  principle  and  property,  we  were  both  summoned 


CALEB  STUKELY.  41 

from  the  orchard  by  a  shrill  cry  proceeding  from  the 
volatile  lungs  of  Mr  Temple,  junior. 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,  Mr  Stukely,"  said  that 
worthy  when  we  joined  him ;  "  take  care  of  yourself. 
If  you  creep  into  holes  and  corners  with  Mr  Levy,  it 
will  soon  go  hard  wdth  your  orthodoxy.  He's  a  seduc- 
tive character,  and,  before  you  are  aware  of  it,  he  will 
turn  you  into  one  of  the  faithful." 

"Mishter  Temples,"  said  the  Israelite  very  serious- 
ly, "  vith  other  people's  religions  I  never  bother  my 
bead.  I've  business  enough  upon  my  mind  vithout 
troubling  myself  vith  vat  doesn't  consarn  me.  Besides, 
it's  very  necessary  that  some  should  be  this,  and  some 
the  other.  For  my  part,  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  see 
that  day  ven  every  body  vill  be  Jews;  for  I  think 
business  vithout  the  Chrishtians  vill  be  very  flat  and 
inshipid." 

"  Ah  !  Levy,  you're  a  new  light,  and  citizen  of  the 
world  !  But  why  have  you  deserted  us,  Mr  Stukely? 
Your  appetite  will  quarrel  with  your  breach  of  good 
manners  before  we  reach  Cambridge.  Was  our  com- 
pany so  disagreeable  that  you  should  refuse  to  break 
bread  with  us  ?  " 

"  I  felt  no  inclination  for  food,  and  the  lovely  day 
tempted  me  to  feast  in  the  open  air." 

"  Upon  nothing  !  Ah,  you  cannot  feed  capons  so  !. 
My  dear  fellow,  you  are  a  freshman,  and  freshmen 
belong  to  the  extensive  family  of  Green.  They  are 
known  by  their  small  appetites  and  large  feelings,  by 

VOL.  I.  u 


42  CALEB  STUKELY. 

their  love  of  home  and  bread  and  milk,  and  by  their 
dislike  of  mixed  society.  Well,  I  suppose  it  must  be 
so.  Should  we  be  fellow-travellers  this  time  twelve- 
month, your  poetry  will  be  sensibly  diminished,  and 
your  appetite  restored  to  you.  I  am  wide  awake  to 
the  whole  proceeding,  for,  autem  ego — what  is  that 
Latin  proverb  about  Catiline  ?  I  have  been  so  long 
at  Cambridge  that  I've  forgotten  the  little  Latin  I 
took  up  with  me." 

["  Another  figure  of  speech,"  thought  I.] 

"  I  shall  be  sorry,"  X  replied,  "  to  use  the  words  of 
our  friend  here,  to  see  that  day,  Mr  Temple,  that  will 
find  me  less  under  the  direction  of  those  feelings  which 
at  this  moment  attract  and  attach  me  to  all  that  is 
lovely  and  consolatory  in  life." 

"  A  very  sensible  idea,  and  very  veil  put  together," 
remarked  Mr  Levy. 

"  Levy,  be  quiet,"  said  Mr  Temple  softly.  "  Stuke- 
ly,  you  are  young,  very  young,  not  in  years  but  in 
facts.  I  have  gone  through  all  this,  and  so  has  many 
a  better  fellow.  It's  a  stale  game,  though  new  to  you. 
There  are  certain  things  which  we  must  all  undergo. 
We  leave  oiF  sucking.  Our  mothers  take  pride  in 
combing  our  hairs  straight.  We  are  discharged  from 
home,  with  many  kisses  and  very  many  parting  words. 
It's  all  beautiful,  no  doubt,  and,  as  you  observe,  very 
consolatory — but  it's  only  part  of  the  system.  Now, 
I  never  wager,  except  upon  the  odd  trick  at  whist, 
and  then  only  half-crowns ;  but  I  should  like  to  bet 


CALEB  STUKELY.  43 

heavy  odds  at  this  moment  that  I  could  read  what's 
passing  in  your  mind." 

"  Mr  Shtukely,"  exclaimed  Mr  Levy,  "  don't  you 
do  any  sich  thing.  That  would  be  a  very  nice  vay  of 
getting  rid  of  your  money." 

"  How  many  times  within  this  hour,"  continued  Mr 
Temple,  "have  you  persuaded  yourself  that  your 
home,  wherever  it  may  be,  is  the  choicest  place  in  life, 
and  how  many  new  attractions,  which  have  escaped 
your  observation  so  many  years,  have  you  all  at  once 
discovered  there  ?  Why  do  you  blush  ?  I  know  your 
home  never  looked  so  fair  as  it  does  this  moment, 
reflected  to  you  at  this  short  distance  through  the 
medium  of  your  passions.  Don't  deceive  yourself;  and, 
above  all,  beware  of  taking  credit  for  something  very 
peculiar,  which  is  as  common  to  all  men  as  their  meat 
and  drink.  Pshaw  !  I  have  known  fellows  who  have 
been  so  bullied  and  thrashed  by  their  governors,  that 
they  have  never  risen  from  their  daily  prayers  without 
putting  up  a  special  one  for  their  release,  actually 
stand  crying  and  snivelling  when  the  hour  of  deliver- 
ance came,  swearing  that  they  had  never  been  half 
thrashed  enough,  or  sufficiently  grateful  for  what  they 
had  received.  Things  do  look  so  different  when  we 
are  about  to  lose  or  leave  them,  and  men  are  such 
arrant  humbugs  to  themselves." 

When  I  entered  the  Cambridge  Intelligence  for  the 
second  time,  I  could  not  understand  why  I  felt  so 
awkward,  vexed,  and  uncomfortable,  in  the  presence 


44  CALEB  STUKELY. 

of  young  Mr  Temple.     But  the  said  gentleman  had 
not  yet  done  with  me. 

"Apropos,  Mr  Stukely,  to  the  subject  we  have 
just  discussed."  I  changed  colour  as  he  spoke;  for  I 
dreaded  an  exposure,  although  I  could  not  exactly  de- 
fine what  the  speaker  had  to  reveal  concerning  me. 
"  You  must  hear  a  capital  story  that  I  can  tell  you  of 
one  who  for  a  season  was  a  fellow  of  your  own  kidney. 
Poor  Jack  Husband  !  Do  you  remember  him.  Levy?" 

Levy  sighed  deeply. 

''  Some  kind  relations,  having  of  course  his  best 
interests  at  heart,  introduced  him  to  a  large  house  in 
India,  which  soon  introduced  him  to  the  yellow  fever 
and  six  feet  of  earth.  He  came,  in  the  first  instance, 
from  Jamaica.  His  father  was  a  large  planter,  and 
Jack  was  sent  over  to  learn  manners,  and  the  art  of 
preaching  to  the  niggers.  For  the  first  six  months 
things  went  on  remarkably  well.  He  was  all  his 
mother  could  wish  him.  He  wore  clodhopper  shoes, 
worsted  stockings,  a  white  choker,  and  thick  cotton 
gloves.  He  rose  regularly  to  chapel,  and  went  to  bed 
every  night  punctually  at  nine  o'clock,  upon  milk  and 
water.  He  barricaded  his  rooms ;  and,  because  he  had 
been  told  that  the  university  was  a  hotbed  of  vice,  he 
shut  himself  up  like  a  seed  in  a  cucumber  frame.  If  a 
man  by  chance  spoke  to  him,  he  buttoned  his  breeches 
pockets  in  order  to  prevent  the  fellow's  walking  into 
them :  and  he  watched  the  movements  of  his  bedmaker 
and  gyp,  as  though  to  assassinate  him  had  been  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  45 

aim  and  business  of  their  lives.  It  was  a  great  pity- 
that  his  mamma  ever  trusted  so  sweet  a  youth  in  so 
wicked  a  place — but  it  was  a  moral  struggle,  and  you 
shall  hear  the  result  of  it.  Jack's  remittances  came 
at  stipulated  times  from  his  father's  correspondent  in 
London,  and  at  one  period  it  happened  that  they  hung 
fire  most  fearfully.  He  wrote  at  first  very  politely  on 
the  subject;  but,  receiving  no  reply,  expressed  his  opi- 
nion in  a  peremptory  and  business-like  manner.  The 
second  application  proving  just  as  eff*ectual  as  the  first, 
Mr  Husband  became  very  ill.  He  spoke  to  his  tutor, 
(who  got  as  alarmed  as  himself,)  procured  an  cegrotat 
and  exeat^  and  walked  into  London  with  the  bowels  of 
a  man  determined  on  mishief.  The  correspondent, 
corresjjondensd  non  corresjjondendo,  hung  out  in  Broad 
Street,  City,  and  thither  Mr  Husband  first  went.  The 
house  was  closed,  and  every  window  but  one  blocked 
up  by  a  shutter.  Jack  thought  of  the  ocean,  the  dis- 
tance from  home,  and  grew  very  wretched  indeed. 
'  Is  Mr  Wilson  at  home  ? '  faltered  Jack.  '  Which  ? ' 
said  the  maid  who  answered  the  knock.  Jack,  all 
alive  to  suspicion,  looked  hard  at  the  girl,  fancied  col- 
lusion, and  walked  into  the  passage  without  further 
delay. 

"  '  Now,  young  woman,'  said  he,  shutting  the  door, 
'  take  care  of  what  you  are  about.  I  have  come  from 
quite  as  bad  a  place  as  London  is,  and  I  know  the 
whole  thing.  You  just  tell  Mr  Wilson,  that  Mr  John 
Husband  has  called  to  see  him,  and  isn't  inclined  to 


46  CALEB  STUKELY. 

depart  without  having  that  pleasure.'  The  servant 
ran  away,  and  Jack  walked  into  the  parlour,  and  a 
very  curious  object  indeed  there  met  his  eye.  A  young 
gentleman,  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  with  a  painted 
face  and  long  curly  wig,  bedizened  in  a  glaring  red 
court  dress,  was  lying  at  full  length  on  the  ground,  a 
sword  at  his  side,  and  apparently  in  the  last  agonies 
of  death.  '  Perdition  catch  thy  arm,'  he  bawled  out 
as  Jack  opened  the  door — '  the  chance  is  thine  ! '  Be- 
fore Husband  could  recover  from  his  surprise,  the 
young  fellow  was  on  his-legs,  blushing  scarlet  through 
his  crimson,  and  apologizing  for  the  queerness  of  the 
situation.  To  make  short  of  the  story,  this  was  no 
other  than  Mr  Wilson,  junior,  whose  father  being 
from  home,  and  travelling  in  Scotland,  (which  facts, 
by  the  way,  accounted  for  the  suspension  of  the 
supplies,)  he,  the  son,  was  perfecting  himself  in  the 
rehearsal  of  a  crack  part  which  he  was  to  act  on  the 
following  night  at  an  amateur  club,  of  which  he  was 
the  secretary,  treasurer,  and  principal  performer.  What 
immediately  passed  between  the  two,  I  do  not  know. 
Jack  did  tell  me  that,  after  a  bit,  the  young  one  or- 
dered up  rump-steaks,  pickles,  and  bottled  porter,  and 
about  seven  o'clock  proposed  a  visit  to  Drury-Lane 
Theatre,  where  Siddons  and  Kemble  that  night  acted 
in  Shakspeare's  tragedy  of  Macbeth —  that,  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  performance,  they  adjourned  to  the 
Johnson's  Head — and  that  after  that,  about  ten  o'clock 
the  next  morning,  he  found  himself  in  bed  in  a  strange 


CALEB  STUKELY.  47 

place,  without  the  remotest  idea  of  the  means  which 
had  been  taken  to  deposit  him  there.  A  day  or  two 
afterwards,  the  tutor  received  a  letter  which  informed 
him  that  Mr  Husband  had  been  indefatigable  in  the 
pursuit  of  Mr  Wilson — but  in  vain,  nor  did  he  hope 
to  discover  him  for  some  weeks  to  come — that  Mr 
Husband  bitterly  regretted  any  circumstance  that 
separated  him  from  his  studies,  but  that  he  looked 
forward  to  returning  to  them  with  redoubled  ardour, 
when  his  object  in  London  was  fully  accomplished. 
In  about  a  month  Jack  returned  to  Cambridge,  in  a 
very  seedy  condition.  He  looked  pale  and  sewed  up. 
Mr  Wilson,  junior,  accompanied  him.  He  came  to 
spend  a  week  or  two  with  his  friend,  and  to  recruit. 
Jack  waited  on  the  tutor,  spun  a  long  yarn  about  wan- 
dering barefooted  over  the  Highlands  of  Scotland — 
paid  the  arrears,  and  was  dismissed  with  tears,  and  an 
invitation  to  supper. 

"  London  had  certainly  rubbed  off  a  good  deal  of 
Husband's  rust.  He  ceased  to  dress  like  a  snob,  and 
began  to  think  like  a  gentleman.  He  sported  his  oak 
no  longer,  and  he  looked  upon  his  fellow  mortals  with 
a  kindlier  and  more  forgiving  spirit;  subscribing 
implicitly  to  the  opinion,  that  man  is  by  nature  a 
sociable  and  communicative  animal.  I  was  at  a  wine 
party  that  he  gave  about  two  months  after  his  return, 
and  there  I  heard  him  deliver  a  very  eloquent  speech 
about  prejudice,  and  antique  notions,  the  scales  having 
fallen  from  his  eyes,  and  so  forth.     It  is  a  curious 


48  CALEB  STUKELY. 

fact,  however,  that  after  this  eventful  break  in  Hus- 
band's career,  his  remittances  came  very  irregularly, 
and  the  necessity  for  his  personal  attendance  in  Lon- 
don^exceedingly  frequent.  One  morning  he  received 
a  very  important  communication  from  his  friend, 
Wilson — It  explained  to  him  that  he  might  very 
shortly  expect  a  visit  from  his  governor ;  for  he  ( Wil- 
son) had  extracted  by  stealth  a  letter  from  his  own 
governor's  pocket  a  day  or  two  before,  whilst  he  was 
dozing  after  dinner,  and  had  therein  read  that  Mr 
Husband,  senior,  having  occasion  to  make  a  voyage 
to  England,  had  proposed  to  himself  the  dehght  of 
taking  his  son  by  surprise,  and  to  behold  him  absorbed 
in  the  prosecution  of  his  studies  and  mental  improve- 
ment. There  was  a  postcript  which  I  recollect  well. 
It  ran  thus : — '  New  Tragedy  on  Friday.  Glorious 
John  and  Siddons,  first-rate  parts — pitch  the  remit- 
tances to  Old  Nosey.  Come  up.'  Jack  wishing,  no 
doubt,  to  make  some  enquiries  respecting  his  parent's 
visit,  went  to  town  immediately.  The  two  friends 
greatly  applauded  the  tragedy,  and,  as  usual,  when 
the  curtain  fell,  adjourned  to  the  Johnson's  Head. 

"  Jack  used  to  say,  that  without  being  able  to 
account  for  it,  he  never  in  his  life  had  felt  so  thoroughly 
complete  as  on  this  evening  A  feeling  of  universal 
benevolence  gradually  crept  over  him,  and  he  vowed 
emphatically  to  Wilson,  '  that  man  is  the  very  incar- 
nation of  all  that  is  lovely  and  good.'  3Iilk  punch 
floors  the  human  heart — and  that's  a  fact. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  49 

"  Young  Wilson  belonged  to  a  debating  society, 
and  it  was  a  point  of  honour  with  him  to  meet  all 
general  statements  with  particular  contradiction. 

"  '  We'll  argue  that,  Jack,'  says  he ;  and  scarcely 
had  he  so  said,  when  a  voice  was  heard  in  the  passage. 
It  spoke  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  stopped. 

"  Jack  started.  Wilson  looked  about  the  room  for 
a  thunderbolt.  When  he  turned  again,  Husband  was 
under  the  table,  pulling  hard  at  his  legs,  and  imploring 
him  in  a  whisper  to  blow  out  the  candles. 
"  '  What's  the  matter?'  cried  Wilson. 
"  '  Wilson,  I  am  dished.  I'm  blessed  if  that  isn't 
the  governor.' 

"  '  What,  Jamaica?'  asked  Wilson. 
"  '  Idem  !'  cried  Jack. 

"  The  candles  were  extinguished  immediately.  In 
a  couple  of  hours.  Husband  was  flying  to  Cambridge 
as  fast  as  four  horses  could  carry  him. 

"  About  ten  o'clock  next  evening,  a  respectable  old 
gent,  at  Trinity  Gate,  desired  to  be  directed  to  the 
rooms  of  Mr  John  Husband.  That  gentleman's  gyp 
was  by  accident  in  the  court  at  the  time,  and  he 
begged  the  elderly  gentleman  to  follow  him, 

"  '  I'm  afraid.  Sir,'  said  the  animal,  '  unless  you're 
a  ver?/  particular  friend,  I  can't  let  you  see  Mr  Hus- 
band till  four  o'clock.' 

"  '  What,  to-morrow  afternoon  ? '  enquired  the 
venerable  stranger. 

"  '  No,  sir,  four  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.' 

VOL.  I.  E 


50  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  *  What  do  you  mean  ?  does  Mr  Husband  receive 
visitors  so  early  in  the  morning  ? ' 

"  '  Future  Senior  Wrangler,  sir.  Senior  Wrang- 
lers never  fag  in  the  daytime,  sir. — Daytime  doesn't 
do  for  mathematics — too  light  and  lively.  Hope  Mr 
Husband  won't  break  down.  Afraid  he  will.  Many 
men,  sir,  in  my  time,  would  have  been  senior  wrang- 
lers if  they  hadn't  broke  down.  Mathematics  very 
unwholesome,  sir.  Very  weakening,  and  bad  for  the 
health.  Senate-house  large  and  cold.  Men  go  in 
quite  w^ell — sit  in  a  draught — feel  very  ill — seized  w  ith 
a  shivering  pain  in  the  stomach — forget  what  they  are 
about — walk  out — nervous  fevers — go  home.' 

"  «  Poor  John  !' 

"  '  Do  you  know  Mr  Husband,  sir  ? ' 

"  '  A  little,'  said  the  old  man,  with  a  great  deal  of 
feeling. 

"  «  Only  a  little,  sir  ?  Ah  !  what  a  happy  man  his 
father  must  be  !  I'd  give  a  trifle  to  have  such  a  son. 
Too  good — that's  his  only  fault.  Do  you  know  his 
father,  sir  ?  A  very  respectable  and  intelligent  old 
gentleman,  I've  heard.' 

"  *  Yes,  my  good  man,'  replied  he  of  the  white 
hair,  *  I  do  know  him  a  little.  Here's  a  crown 
for  you.  Who  could  have  told  you  that  I  was — 
that  his  father,  I  mean  to  say — was  respectable  and 
intelligent  ? ' 

"  '  The  world  will  talk,  sir,' — said  the  vulture. 

"  '  Ah,  I  forgot,  so  it  will !     Now   you   step  into 


CALEB  STUKELT.  5  1 

Mr  Husband,  and  say  that  a  gentleman  wishes  to  see 
him  directly.' 

"  '  Upon  my  word,  sir,  it's  more  than  my  place  is 
worth — What's  the  time,  sir  ? ' 

"  The  old  gentleman  struck  his  repeater. 

"  *  About  half-past  ten.' 

"  Half-past  ten.  Really  I  don't  know — he's  just 
beginning  the  Comic  Sections.'  The  old  gentleman 
slipped  another  crown  into  the  claws  of  the  carnivora. 
'  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  I  must  risk  it.  What  name 
shall  I  say?' 

"  '  Oh  ! — say  a  friend  from  the  west' 

"  The  visitor  was  admitted,  but  so  intent  upon  his 
studies  was  Jack,  that  it  was  some  time  before  he  was 
aware  of  his  presence.  Upon  the  table  before  him 
were  two  globes,  the  terrestrial  and  the  celestial, 
various  mathematical  instruments — many  books  piled 
up,  principally  folios  and  quartos,  and  several  sheets 
of  scribbling  and  scribbled  paper.  The  student  him- 
self was  dressed  in  an  old  morning  gown,  and  over  his 
head  to  his  shoulders  hung  a  wet  towel,  that  most 
unaccountable  yet  effectual  of  all  mathematical  charms. 

"  As  the  books  say,  '  I  cannot  describe  the  meeting 
of  Jack  with  his  governor' — for  it  was  the  old  nigger- 
driver,  and  no  one  else — Jack  set  the  old  man  crying 
about  his  health,  and,  before  he  departed,  blarneyed 
him  out  of  a  hundred  pound-note.  When  the  old 
man  left  the  room,  the  gyp,  who  had  listened  all  the 
time  at  the  door,  jumped  into  it;  and  Jack,  overjoyed 


LIBRARY 

IJNiVFRSITY  OF  ILLIMOIS 


52  CALEB  STUKELY. 

at  his  sudden  accession  of  property,  without  saying  a 
word  hy  way  of  introduction,  seized  all  the  folios  and 
quartos,  and,  one  after  the  other,  aimed  them  deliberate- 
ly at  the  head  of  his  attendant.  He,  being  on  the  most 
friendly  footing  with  his  master,  returned  the  com- 
pliment ;  and  then  both  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laugh- 
ter, and  wondered  how  old  Ginger  could  be  such  a 
fool,  and  counted  up  how  many  more  hundreds  they 
would  relieve  him  of  before  they  would  let  him  go ; 
and  passed  many  other  jokes,  all  very  becoming  and 
proper  when  you  consider  the  relative  state  and  con- 
dition of  the  parties  concerned. 

"  As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  however,  old  Sugarcane 
had  left  his  stick  behind  him,  and  returning  immedi- 
ately for  it,  he  was  stopped  at  the  door  by  a  loud 
talking  within ;  but  naturally  concluding  that  it  was 
only  Jack  doing  his  mathematics  aloud,  for  the  sake 
of  the  treat  he  applied  his  parental  ear  to  the  keyhole, 
from  which,  I  believe,  it  would  never  have  dragged 
itself,  if  the  two  worthies,  their  remarks  being  over 
and  conversation  closed,  had  not  emerged  from  the 
room,  and  brought  themselves  at  once  beneath  the 
gaze  of  the  astounded  eavesdropper." 

"  Poor,  poor  old  man  ! "  I  cried,  involuntarily  inter- 
rupting the  narrator. 

"  Well,  he  was  almost  broken-hearted.  But  he  was 
more  to  blame  than  Jack.  What  could  they  expect 
from  a  fellow  whom  they  had  taken  such  ])ains  to 
bring  up  a  hypocrite?" 


CALEB  STUKELY.  53 

"  What  became  of  him  ?" 

"  Within  a  week  of  the  blaze  Jack's  debts  were 
paid,  and  his  name  taken  off  the  boards.  Three 
months  afterwards  he  was  on  his  way  to  India, 
and  in  less  than  a  twelvemonth  the  dust  was  shovel- 
ed over  him.  Now,  what's  your  opinion  of  the 
gentleman  ?  " 

"  Can  you  ask  me  ?     Oh,  could  " — 

"  Ah — Well,  I  see,  you  needn't  be  violent.  I 
don't  agree  with  you." 

The  shadows  of  twilight  came  on.  Before  Mr 
Temple  had  finished  his  narrative,  sleep  had  taken 
possession  of  the  travellers.  The  jaggy  motion  and 
the  continuous  rumbling  of  the  vehicle,  in  a  short 
quarter  of  an  hour,  had  produced  its  customary  eifect 
upon  those  who  had  partaken  of  a  hearty  meal ;  and 
Mr  Levy,  who  had  been  once  more  at  his  dry  bread, 
the  crumbs  of  which  now  hung  lazily  about  his  lips, 
also  overcome,  snored,  oblivious  and  happy,  in  the 
snug  corner  which  he  had  first  appropriated  to  himself 
— suddenly  he  gaj>ed.  Mr  James  Temple  caught  the 
infection.  He  stretched  his  hmbs,  and  sunk  gradually 
to  slumber.  Greyer  and  greyer  became  the  hght  of 
day,  and  more  definite  and  plahi  grew  the  sounds  of 
external  life.  The  horses'  hoofs  sounded  distinct  and 
hollow  as  they  tramped  the  dry  ground,  and  not  less 
clear  the  smacking  whip  and  friendly  voice  of  their 
conductor,  cheering  them  on  to  the  close  of  a  long 
and  heavy  stage.    All  else  was  silence.    It  was  night 


54  CALEB  STUKELY. 

when  the  rattling  of  stones  announced  our  arrival  at 
the  town.  I  gently  opened  the  coach  window,  and 
looked  out — and,  oh  !  that  glorious  sight  of  buildings, 
rearing  themselves  one  after  another  like  giants  in  the 
transparent  night.  How  stately  did  they  look  !  How- 
venerable  in  their  quiet  and  religious  age  !  It  was  a 
dream  of  poetry  to  gaze  upon  the  noble  bulk  of  living 
stone,  laden  with  the  memories  of  years,  standing  so 
pensive  and  so  calm  beneath  the  bright  and  watching 
stars  of  heaven.  Here  and  there  I  could  perceive,  now 
walking  through  some  noiseless  street,  now  issuing  from 
an  antique  court  or  gateway,  a  solitary  student — and 
then  a  small  cluster,  these  laughing  aloud  and  boister- 
ous, but  the  former  wrapt  in  meditation,  or  busy,  it 
might  be,  with  thoughts  of  kindred  and  of  home.  Proud 
was  I,  as  I  looked  around,  that  it  was  mine  to  say,  "  I 
also  have  a  share  in  this ; "  and  when  I  connected  with 
the  sacred  spot  the  mighty  master-spirits  that  were 
gone,  but  whose  names  still  rung  and  were  revered 
throughout  the  world,  how  did  my  youthful  bosom 
burn  with  ambition,  and  a  desire  for  fame  ! 

The  coach  stopped  at  Trinity  gate.  When  I 
alighted  my  companions  were  still  asleep.  I  did  not 
care  to  wake  them.  I  requested  that  my  luggage 
might  be  sent  from  the  inn,  and  without  a  look  I  hur- 
ried past  the  lodge. 

My  rooms  were  pointed  out  to  me.  The  bedmaker 
had  been  informed  of  my  coming,  and  a  comfortable 
fire  awaited  me. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  55 

Reader  !  the  extremes  of  things  opposed,  thet/  differ 
— the  parts  adjacent  blend.  Would  it  were  other- 
wise !  We  cannot  trace  the  first  faint  lines  of  crime 
till  we  have  left  them  far  behind ;  and  when  "  return- 
ing were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er,"  we  glide  through  good 
to  ill.  Were  it  at  once  to  leap  into  the  depths  of  guilt, 
how  many  might  be  scared  and  saved  !  Beware,  lest 
you  listen  with  equanimity  and  delight  to  the  lambent 
tongue  of  vice — most  dangerous  when  most  playful ! 


56  CALEB  STUKELY. 


PART    11. 

COLLEGE. 

He  that  would  win  th^race,  must  guide  his  horse 
Obedient  to  the  customs  of  the  course, 
Else,  though  unequaU'd  to  the  goal  he  flies, 
A  meaner  than  himself  shall  gain  the  prize. 

Cowper. 

Almost  before  I  was  aware  of  my  own  existence  in 
the  town  and  university  of  Cambridge,  it  appeared 
that  others  had  been  possessed  of  the  fact :  for,  upon 
leaving  the  narrow  shp  of  lodging  in  which  I  had  passed 
the  night,  (and  which,  certainly,  might  be  styled  the 
bedroom,  inasmuch  as  there  was  just  room  enough  for 
a  bed  in  it,  and  nothing  more,)  and  entering  the  sitting- 
room  adjoining,  I  discovered  upon  the  table,  awaiting 
me,  a  letter  in  due  form  addressed  to  Caleb  Stukely, 
Esq.,  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  The  contents 
were  as  follows  : — 

"  The  Vice-chancellor  presents  his  kind  regards 
to  Mr  Stukely,  and  trusts  that  Mr  Stukely,  senior,  as 
well  as  Mrs  Stukely,  are  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  best 
possible  health,  as  this  leaves  the  Vice-chancellor  at 


CALEB  STUKELY.  57 

present ;  at  the  same  time,  the  Y.  C.  begs  to  request 
the  favour  of  Mr  Stukely's  company  at  breakfast  this 
morning,  trusting  that  no  previous  engagement  will 
deprive  him  of  the  honour. 

"  N.B.— Mr  Stukely  will  please  attend  in  full 
dress." 

Flattered  as  I  really  felt  by  this  invitation,  I  attri- 
buted it  rather  to  the  high  character  which  my  father 
enjoyed  as  a  trader  in  the  city  of  London,  than  to  any 
personal  desert,  of  which  the  Vice-chancellor  must 
necessarily  have  been  ignorant.  Singularly  vigilant, 
however,  I  could  not  but  consider  that  system,  by 
which  the  private  condition  and  movements  of  the 
humblest  of  scholars  were  so  immediately  observed 
and  communicated  to  the  highest  authorities.  Could 
this  be  the  usual  mode  of  receiving  the  adopted  in  the 
affectionate  bosom  of  alma  mater  ?  or  was  it  an  espe- 
cial mark  of  attention  extended  to  me — an  exception 
from  the  general  rule  ?  Let  my  youth  plead  for  the 
modesty  that  induced  me  to  form  the  latter  opinion. 
Not  having  yet  donned  my  academic  costume,  I  argued 
that  it  would  be  becoming  in  me  to  present  myself  in 
that  particular  dress  which  had  been  made  in  London 
expressly  for  evening  parties ;  albeit,  such  mighty  and 
fashionable  doings  had  been  foreign  to  the  quiet  abode 
from  which  I  had  migrated.  By  Mr  Simmonds  I  wasr 
directed  to  the  Vice-chancellor's  abode.  The  reader 
will  not  have  forgotten  that  very  respectable  character 
introduced  by  Mr  Temple  in  his  narrative  at  the  close 


58  CALEB  STUKELY. 

of  the  last  chapter — to  wit,  the  gyp  of  Mr  Husband. 
The  above-mentioned  Simmonds  performed  the  hke 
office  for  me ;  but  let  not  the  worthiest  of  his  species 
be  confounded  with  the  vilest.  Picture  to  yourself  a 
body  curved  and  bending  beneath  a  load  of  years  —a 
head  blanched  in  the  service  of  old  Time,  not  a  hair 
but  wearing  the  master's  livery — an  eye  of  settled  still- 
ness— a  hand,  bloodless  and  old  indeed,  active  only  in 
its  tremblings,  squeezed  up  and  faded — a  gait,  to  say 
it  was  a  child's  would  be  to  libel  nature,  it  was  so 
weak  and  tottering.  This  was  the  external  Simmonds. 
The  invisible  part  of  him  was  not  younger  or  fresher 
in  the  hour  that  his  Maker  first  breathed  the  breath 
of  life  in  him.  I  experienced  a  feeling  of  shame  when 
I  engaged  him. 

"  You  are  too  old  for  work,  man,"  said  I  to  him. 

"  Not  I,  indeed,  sir,"  was  his  reply ;  "  I'm  nearer 
to  fourscore  than  seventy — that  is  true ;  but  I'll 
warrant  you  a  lad  of  eighteen  is  not  more  nimble. 
Look  here,  now."  And  he  attempted  to  run  across 
the  room  !  The  exhibition  was  melancholy  indeed. 
"  Besides,"  he  continued,  holding  his  sides,  and  catch- 
ing his  breath  after  the  exertion,  "  I've  a  grandson — 
God  bless  him  ! — who  takes  all  the  labour  off  my 
bands.  But  I  should  die  if  I  were  to  give  it  up  alto- 
gether. Sixty  years  come  next  Shrovetide  have  I  done 
duty  here.  Ah,  sir,  things  are  different  now  !  Times 
are  not  as  they  have  been  ! " 

(I  discovered,  when  I  became  a  few  years  older. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  59 

that  no  times  are  ever  as  they  have  been.  It  is  a  fault 
inherent  in  the  nature  of  times.  Mr  Simmonds  had 
no  particular  complaint  to  make ;  his  remark  was 
general. ) 

"  Perhaps,  sir,"  said  Mr  Simmonds,  when  I  had 
agreed  to  hire  him,  "  you  would  like  to  be  shown  over 
your  room.  Be  good  enough  to  follow  me."  I  must 
here  premise  that  my  room  was  of  moderate  dimen- 
sions, and  might  be  described  as  containing  one  very 
large  fireplace,  one  very  large  cupboard,  two  very 
large  window-sills,  and  two  very  small  windows.  Fur- 
ther, it  was  wainscoted,  and  in  the  ceiling  the  artificial 
black  preponderated  considerably  over  the  natural 
white.  Having  observed  all  this  before,  and  at  a 
glance,  I  was  certainly  not  prepared  for  the  important 
air  with  which  Mr  Simmonds  proceeded  to  point  out 
the  various  localities  and  ornaments  of  the  place.  He 
made  first  for  the  large  cupboard. 

"  This,"  said  he,  opening  it,  "  is  your  pantry  and 
larder,  your  china  closet,  and  the  receptacle  for  your 
bellows,  gridiron,  tea-kettle,  and  little  saucepan. 
This,"  he  continued,  having  reached  the  window-seat, 
"  is  your  wine-cellar." 

"  Indeed  ! "  I  exclaimed,  not  comprehending  him. 
"  Your  wine-cellar,"  he  repeated,  lifting  up  the  top 
of  the  window-sill,  which  was  hinged  to  the  rest  of  the 
timber,  and  discovering  a  hollow  case  reaching  to  the 
floor,  and  filled  with  sawdust. 

"  And  this,"  said  he,  performing  the  same  ceremony 


60  CALEB  STUKELY. 

at  the  fellow  window-sill,  "  is  your  coal-cellar.  The 
locks  of  all  are,  as  you  see,  broken,  and  my  first  advice 
to  you  is,  that  you  immediately  get  them  repaired  It 
is  a  little  guard,  though  not  much  to  be  sure — more's 
the  pity  ! "  Without  enquiring  further  into  the  mean- 
ing of  these  dark  hints,  I  changed  the  conversation  to 
the  subject  of  the  Vice-chancellor.  I  desired,  before 
my  visit,  to  gather  something  of  his  character. 

"  Do  you  know  any  thing  of  him  ?  "  I  asked  Sim- 
monds.     "  Is  he  an  agreeable  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Why,  look  you,  Mr^tukely,"  answered  the  gyp, 
"  just  as  I  am  standing  talking  to  you  now,  I  stood 
talking  to  him  fifty  years  ago  come  next  commence- 
ment. Do  I  know  any  thing  of  him  ?  That  is  good  ! 
Yes,  I  should  say  I  do — a  little.  For  about  four 
years,  between  you  and  me,  sir,  I  knew  rather  too 
much  of  him.  He  was  a  mortal  wild  one,  and  many  a 
scrape  he  got  me  and  himself  into,  and  many  a  false- 
hood— more's  the  sorrow  ! — did  he  invent  to  get  us 
out  of  it.  But  he  had  a  mort  of  money,  and,  of  course, 
could  do  what  poorer  men  daren't.  He's  an  altered 
man  now." 

"  He  must  have  been  a  hard  worker,  too,  and  dis- 
tinguished himself,  no  doubt,  before  he  became  master 
of  his  college." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  just  now,  sir,  that  he  was  a  very 
rich  man  ?  Besides,  in  those  days,  things  were  very 
different.  He  gave  the  best  dinners,  and  drank  the 
best  wine  in  the  university,  (and,  for  the  matter  o' 


CALEB  STUICELY.  61 

that,  SO  he  does  now,)  and  the  fellows  of  his  college 
were  proud  of  him,  and  made  him  one  of  themselves 
—gave  him  a  fellowship,  and  then  voted  him  master 
at  the  next  election.  It  was  a  great  shame  though ; 
for,  do  you  know — you  needn't  repeat  it — there  was  a 
young  man  who  had  almost  worked  himself  to  death 
for  that  very  fellowship,  and  who  had  nothing  in  the 
world  but  his  own  talents  to  depend  upon ;  he  actually 
took  the  thing  so  much  to  heart,  that  he  was  found 
dead  in  his  bed,  with  a  bottle  of  poison  clenched  fast 
in  his  hand." 

"  You  don't  say  so  ! " 

"  I  do  say  so,  and  the  master  didn't  like  it  at  all. 
It  was  hushed  up  in  the  college.  The  Dons  gave  it 
out  that  he  died  of  apoplexy.  However,  the  master, 
I'm  told,  allowed  the  poor  young  man's  father  an  an- 
nuity as  long  as  he  lived,  which  I  always  thought  was 
very  kind  and  considerate  of  him." 

"  I'm  surprised,"  I  said,  "  that  you  don't  live  with 
him!" 

"  No,  sir,  I'd  rather  not.  The  master  has  asked  me 
once  or  twice,  but  I'm  happier  here.  He  is  very  kind 
to  me  still,  and  many  a  bleak  winter  he  has  changed 
into  a  blessed  summer  for  me.  He  is  very  good  at 
heart;  but,  as  I  get  older,  I  wish  more  that  I  had 
never  been  his  gyp." 

Thus  informed,  I  set  out  for  the  Vice-chancellor's 
residence.    He  was  the  master  of  a  small  college,  situ- 


Q2  CALEB  STUKELY. 

ated  in  one  of  the  principal  streets  of  Cambridge.     In 
my  time,  it  was  an  old  and  picturesque  building,  and 
looked  grave  and  comely ;  snugly  protected  as  it  was 
by  its  long  brick  wall,  and  row  of  lofty  poplar- trees. 
That  wall  and   those   poplar-trees  have  been  since 
razed :  the  edifice  has  been  plastered  over,  and  stands, 
with  its  immodest  glare  of  pretension,  a  very  whited 
sepulchre.     I  rang  gently  at  the  lodge  gate,  and  mo- 
destly placed  my  card  in  the  hand  of  the  well-dressed 
domestic  who  opened  it.     He  retired  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  then  returned,  desiring  me  to  follow  him 
up  stairs.     During  his  absence,  I  had  not  failed  to 
notice  the  painful  silence  that  extended  through  the 
place.     It  was  not  the  delicious  quiet  that  I  had  ex- 
perienced on  the  orchard  ground  the  day  before.    No, 
that  was  the  silence  of  nature  and  of  life,  cheerful  and 
exhilarating.      This  was  oppressive  —  the  cold   and 
earthy  stillness  of  the  tomb.    A  cough  echoed  through 
the  house  again — once  a  door  slammed,  and  there  rung 
through  the  dwelling  a  long  and  hideous  reverberation. 
We  passed  into  a  spacious  and  well-filled   library, 
then  through  a  noble  room  with  polished  oaken  floors. 
This  looked  upon   a  beautiful  and  extensive  lawn. 
Shadows  of  massive  floating  clouds  skimmed  the  green 
surface  as  I  softly  trod  the  room,  and  deepened  the 
sombreness  that  pervaded  the  scholastic  habitation. 
Beyond  was  the  drawing-room,  an  apartment  of  good 
dimensions,  and  literally  crowded  with  costly  furni- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  63 

ture.  Here  the  lackey  stopped,  and  drawing  to  the 
fireplace  a  bulky  chair,  capacious  enough  for  four,  he 
begged  me  to  be  seated,  and  then  took  his  leave. 

As  it  seemed  to  be  the  fashion  in  this  establishment 
to  proceed  with  as  little  hurry  and  fatigue  as  possible, 
I  had  ample  time  aiforded  me  to  observe  the  various 
sumptuous  articles  by  which  I  was  surrounded ;  but 
my  curiosity  was  particularly  excited  by  a  small  cur- 
tain which  hung  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  evi- 
dently concealing  something  that  was  held  too  sacred 
for  the  vulgar  eye.  For  some  time  I  fought  against 
my  desire,  but,  unable  at  length  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion, I  withdrew  the  curtain,  and  discovered,  not  what 
I  had  expected  to  find,  the  form  and  feature  of  some 
ladye-love,  but  a  portrait  by  Vandyke,  painted  in  all 
the  boldness  and  truth  of  that  great  master,  and 
bearing  beneath  it  the  following  inscription,  "  Oliver 
Cromwell,  protector  of  England,"  * 

*  This  portrait  hung  in  the  dra^\-ing-room  of  the  lodge  attached 
to  the  college,  of  which  the  Protector  was  a  member.  The  fol- 
lowing legend  concerning  it  was  beUeved  by  old  Simmonds.  Many 
years  ago — it  is  not  said  how  many — a  letter  was  received  by  the 
existing  master  of  the  college,  desiring  that  the  gates  and  lodge 
door  should  be  left  open  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night,  and  free 
access  afforded  to  the  dra^\■ing-room,  in  order  that  the  picture  of 
Oliver  Cromwell  might  be  therein  deposited,  in  compliance  with  his 
own  dying  request.  It  was  hinted,  at  the  same  time,  that  if  any 
endeavour  were  made  to  discover  either  the  donor  or  bearer  of  the 
gift,  the  portrait  would  be  for  ever  lost  to  the  college,  and  curio- 
sity still  left  ungratified.  The  terms  were  strictly  complied  with, 
and  the  picture  found  its  way  in :  for  the  next  morning  it  was 
hanging  on  the  wall. 


64  CALEB  STUKELY. 

The  thunder  of  another  door  permitted  me  only  to 
glance  at  the  portrait  and  to  replace  the  curtain.  The 
drawing-room  door  opened,  and  in  an  invalid's  chair, 
wheeled  into  my  presence  by  the  aforesaid  lackey,  en- 
tered the  Vice-chancellor. 

He  was  a  fine  man,  tall,  sinewy,  and  robust-look- 
ing ;  his  chest  was  broad  and  manly,  his  voice  strong 
and  sonorous,  his  face  very  florid,  and  his  hair  white 
as  the  purified  particles  of  snow.  Beholding  him  as 
I  did  at  our  first  interview,  an  experienced  physiogno- 
mist would  have  drawn  two  conclusions.  First,  that 
nature  had  never  intended  the  Vice-chancellor  for 
such  a  chair;  and  secondly,  that  his  living  was  good, 
and  he  did  not  quarrel  wdth  it.  He  was  wheeled  to 
the  fireplace,  and  he  bade  me  be  seated  next  to  him. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  he  began,  "what's  your  business?" 

If  he  had  accused  me  of  robbing  him  I  could  not 
have  been  more  alarmed  than  when  he  put  this  ques- 
tion to  me.  Had  I  made  a  mistake?  Come  to  the 
vrrong  college,  for  instance  ?  Simmonds's  account  had 
already  filled  me  with  awe,  and  the  big  house  had  not 
decreased  it.  I  thought  it  advisable  to  give  him  at 
once  the  note  of  invitation  that  I  had  received.  He 
took  it  silently,  and  read  it.  He  then  looked  hard  at 
me,  and  read  it  again. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  Cambridge?"  said  he. 

"  Since  last  night,  sir." 

"  Are  you  a  freshman  ?  " 

«  Yes,  sir." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  65 

"What  college?" 

"  Trinity,  sir." 

"  Have  you  made  any  acquaintances  yet  ?  " 

"  Only  Simmonds's,  sir,  the  gyp's." 

"  Ring  that  bell." 

I  rang  it,  and  my  old  friend  the  lackey  appeared. 

"  Breakfast !  "  said  the  Vice-chancellor. 

"  Sir  ? "  quoth  the  footman,  as  one  who  had  not 
quite  understood  the  order. 

"  Breakfast ! "  was  repeated  in  a  tone  of  command, 
that  at  one  and  the  same  time  frightened  the  man  out 
of  the  room,  and  me  into  the  very  corner  of  the  large 
chair  in  which  I  was  sitting. 

The  breakfast  was  soon  brought.  The  footman 
made  the  tea,  and  waited  upon  us.  The  master  ate 
and  drank  very  little — almost  as  little,  indeed,  as  my- 
self, who  had  by  this  time  begun  to  feel  any  how  but 
comfortable,  and  to  find  no  very  great  pleasure  in  the 
especial  mark  of  favour  with  which  I  had  been  in- 
dulged. 

"  From  what  part  of  the  country  do  you  come,  my 
lad?"  enquired  the  Vice-chancellor  when  the  cloth 
was  removed,  and  with  more  kindly  an  air  than  he  had 
shown  before.  ("A  curious  question,"  thought  I, 
"  after  enquiring  so  particularly  respecting  the  health 
of  my  father  and  mother  !") 

"  From  London,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"  From  London  !  that's  very  remarkable  !  and  how 
old  are  you  ?  " 

VOL.  I.  F 


66  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  Eighteen,  sir,"  said  I,  getting  confidence  from  the 
Vice-chancellor's  increasing  amenity  of  manners. 

"  Then  you  ought  to  be  thoroughly  ashamed  of 
yourself,"  was  the  damping  reply.  "  What !  a  Lon- 
doner— and  eighteen  years  of  age !  to  be  gulled  like 

a oh — oh — oh,  this  infernal  gout!    You  young 

fool,"  he  roared  out,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  " 

I  jumped  from  my  seat  in  great  trepidation,  and 
thought,  all  things  .considered,  I  had  better  go  back 
again.  My  hand  was  on  the  door  when  he  summoned 
me  to  my  chair.  ^ 

"  Sit  down,  and  hear  what  I  have  to  say.  Some- 
body has  made  a  fool  of  you.  That  letter  is  an  impo- 
sition.    I  never  invited  you  to  breakfast." 

"  No,  sir  !   I  am  sure  I'm  very  sorry  then" 

"  Never  mind,  are  you  certain  you've  made  no 
man's  acquaintance  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  haven't,  sir,  I  only  came  last  night." 

"  How  did  you  get  here?" 

'-  By  coach,  sir,  from  London." 

"  With  whom  did  you  travel  ?  " 

Now  the  very  moment  the  Vice-chancellor  put  the 
question  to  me,  the  form  of  Mr  James  Temple,  with 
his  hypocritical  serious  face,  rose  up  before  me ;  and 
I  felt  as  certain  as  I  did  of  my  own  identity,  that  to 
him,  and  to  no  one  else,  was  I  indebted  for  this  very 
agreeable  business.  "  With  two  under-graduates, 
sir — Mr  Solomon  Levy,  a  gentleman  of  very  great 
respectability,  and  two  ladies." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  67 

"  Do  you  know  the  under-graduates'  names  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     Temple." 

«  Their  college  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  young  man.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  so 
straightforward,"  said  my  questioner,  wTiting  down 
the  name.  '«  And  now,  before  you  go,  take  a  word 
of  advice.  If  you  don't  improve  very  rapidly,  this  is 
likely  to  be  not  the  last  occasion  of  your  being  duped. 
You  must  be  a  man,  sir — think,  act,  and  feel  like  a 
man — oh — oh,  this  cursed  gout !  Do  you  hear  what 
I  say,  you  goose  ?  "  and  he  bellowed  out  again. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  answer,  when  you  see  me  in 
such  pain  ?  I  tell  you  it  will  not  do  to  be  a  boy,  where 
all  your  companions  are  men.  What's  the  use  of 
your  looking  at  that  sofa  whilst  I  am  talking  ? — look 
at  me,  can't  you?  If  ever  you  receive  such  letters 
again,  put  them  into  the  fire  at  once,  and  don't  believe 
them.  You  must  learn  your  true  position  as  soon  as 
you  can ;  until  you  do,  you  never  can  be  comfortable 
or  at  your  ease.  Attend  well  to  your  studies,  and 
keep  good  hours.  I  suppose  you  know  the  proverl) 
— Aurora  arnica  musarum.  When  /was  a  student,  I 
was  never  out  of  bed  after  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
or  in  it  after  six  in  the  morning.  Winter  or  summer 
makes  no  difference  to  an  honest  student,  who  has  his 
work  to  do,  and  will  get  through  it.  I  have  never 
known  such  happy  hours  as  those  spent  as  an  under- 


68  CALEB  STUKELT. 

graduate  in  this  college.  All  summers  were  as  one 
summer,  and  all  winters  as  one  winter,  they  were  so 
much  alike.  Every  season  found  me  at  my  books, 
and  whether  the  birds  whistled,  and  the  sun  shone 
warm  upon  my  study,  or  whether  it  was  dark  and 
dreary  without,  and  I  had  to  sit  by  my  snug  fire,  and 
read  by  my  little  lamp,  the  simple  fact  of  my  being 
industrious  was  the  same.  There  I  was  to  be  found  ; 
and  I  have  reaped  the  good  reward.  Look  at  me, 
sir!  the  representative  of  one  who  is  the  representative 
of  so  many  glorious,  noble,  and  religious  foundations. 
Be  assured,  young  man,  excellence  in  any  one  thing 
is  not  to  be  reached  without  the  closest  perseverance 
and  the  severest  self-denial." 

I  was  not  a  little  staggered  by  the  Vice-chancellor's 
reminiscence  of  his  early  days.  Here  were  two  old 
men,  both  greyheaded,  telling  one  story,  yet  so  differ- 
ently, that,  without  attempting  to  mince  either  the 
subject-matter,  or  my  expression,  I  was  brought  to  the 
very  disagreeable  necessity  of  regarding  one  of  them 
as  the  most  eminent  and  egregious  old  liar  that  had 
ever  been  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  speech.  I  made, 
for  the  nonce,  a  philosophical  inference.  The  Vice- 
chancellor  was  a  great  man,  and  could  not  lie.  Poor 
Simmonds  was  a  hireling,  and  did  so  ex-officio. 

"  I  desire  to  say  one  word  more  before  you  go,  and 
that  is  with  regard  to  your  attendance  at  chapel.  Your 
college  will  exact  only  a  certain  number  of  attendances 
during  the  week ;  but  you  will  ask  your  conscience 


CALEB  STUKELY.  69 

what  it  will  require,  and  if  it  will  be  satisfied  with  any 
thing  short  of  a  regular  daily  regard  for  the  ordinances 
of  your  religion.  Christianity,  young  man,  is  neither 
classics  nor  mathematics  :  it  is  something  superior  to 
both ;  these  are  indeed  the  food  and  substance  of  the 
mind,  but  that  is  the  mind's  regulator.  It  pleases  me 
to  find  that  you  are  so  attentive  to  what  I  say.  If  you 
ask  me  what  will  improve  the  temper,  render  us  ami- 
able, regardful  of  our  social  duties,  good  politicians, 
benevolent  members  of  society,  and  perfect  gentlemen, 
I  answer  Christianity ;  and  to  subdue  and  overcome 
the  pains  both  of  body  and  of  mind,  I  may  freely  say, 
from  experience,  I  know  nothing  so  powerful  and  effi- 
cacious." Here  the  gout  became  once  more  exceed- 
ingly troublesome,  and  caused  great  pain  to  the  worthy 
speaker.     There  arose  first  a  rapid  and  sharp  drawing 

of  the  breath,  then  the  blatant  roar "  Ring  the 

bell,  you  young  rascal !"  almost  screeched  the  Vice- 
chancellor,  rolling  in  his  chair  with  agony.  I  rushed 
to  the  rope,  and  in  my  violent  haste  pulled  it  to  the 
ground  without  provoking  the  slightest  tinkling  from 
the  bell.  The  master  stared  at  me  as  if  he  would  have 
strangled  me,  had  he  been  at  liberty  and  able,  which, 
thank  Heaven,  he  was  not !  He  bit  his  lip  and  frowned, 
tossed  about  and  groaned,  and  at  last  it  burst  out — 

"  D — mn  you,  you  young  villain,  can't  you  bawl 
upon  the  stairs  ?" 

This  concluding  practical  illustration  of  the  mas- 
ter's own  doctrine,  was  favourable  at  least  to  my  good 


70  CALEB  STUKELY. 

opinion  of  poor  Simmonds,  who,  I  must  confess,  during 
the  first  part  of  the  Vice-chancellor's  last  speech  had 
been  rapidly  sinking  in  my  estimation.  When  I  re- 
turned to  my  rooms,  the  old  man  was  busy  in  the  repairs 
of  the  cupboard  and  "  cellars." 

1  repeated  to  him  the  whole  of  the  morning's  busi- 
ness, without  thinking  it  necessary  to  refer  to  the  sham 
invitation,  and  the  object  of  my  visit. 

"  Ah,  poor  man !"  sighed  the  gyp:  "  'tis  very  strange 
and  very  shocking.  He  has  told  the  same  story  so 
often,  and  to  so  many,  that  at  last  he  believes  it  him- 
self. He  talks  too  much,  and  does  too  little.  Ah,  sad 
work  !  sad  work  !  The  doings  at  that  lodge  on  many 
a  Sabbath-day  are  a  scandal  to  the  place.  What's  the 
use  of  a  sermon  at  St  Mary's,  if  a  man's  knocked  up 
afterwards  in  the  night  to  take  the  preacher  home  ? 
Have  I  not  done  it  more  than  once  ?  It's  too  bad ; 
and  what  a  true  and  awful  saying  that  is — '  What  shall 
it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose 
his  own  soul ! '  " 

As  all  this  was  uttered  in  an  under  tone,  and  rather 
to  himself  than  to  me,  I  deemed  that  I  had  no  business 
to  teaze  the  old  man  by  further  interrogations.  During 
the  whole  of  the  day  he  remained  in  and  about  my 
room,  doing  literally  nothing,  but  amusing  himself  with 
the  fancy  that  he  was  labouring  hard  for  my  happiness 
and  comfort.  He  saw  that  my  modicum  of  coals  was 
safely  deposited  in  the  proper  place,  and  carefully 
wiped  and  locked  the  window-seat    afterwards.     He 


CALEB  STUKELY.  71 

bustled  about,  languidly  enough,  with  his  grandson, 
who  came  in  the  course  of  the  morning  with  articles 
of  furniture  that  belonged  to  the  room,  (and  who,  in- 
deed, performed  all  that  was  needful  and  proper  to  be 
done,)  and  at  length,  about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
placing  my  commons  on  the  table,  and  poking  the  fire 
to  make  the  kettle  boil,  he  looked  round  the  room, 
thought  "he  had  now  done  every  thing,  and  would 
therefore  go  home" — which  saying,  he  crept  away. 

I  had  now  been  two  days  absent  from  my  parents, 
and  for  the  first  time  working  in  life,  as  it  were,  on  my 
own  account.  Surely  my  short  experience  had  been 
neither  creditable  to  the  world,  nor  satisfactory  to  the 
humble  individual  who  had  thrown  himself  upon  its 
sympathies  and  good-nature  ?  My  treatment  had  been 
rather  that  of  a  dog  venturing  into  a  pre-occupied  ken- 
nel, than  of  a  human  being  joining  the  social  common- 
wealth, and  seeking  the  rights  and  immunities  of  a 
denizen.  It  was  impossible  to  avoid  the  flattering 
conviction,  that  both  by  Mr  Temple  and  the  Vice- 
chancellor — the  former  scarcely  a  month  older  than 
myself,  and  that  was  the  most  unpleasant  reflection  in 
the  whole  transaction — I  was  regarded  as  no  better 
than  a  fool,  to  be  played  upon  or  insulted,  according 
to  the  present  and  prevailing  humour  of  the  party  that 
took  me  in  hand.  Temple  had  insulted  me  covertly 
when  he  bantered  me  in  the  orchard-ground,  and,  in 
writing  the  letter,  had  openly  played  upon  me.  The 
Vice-chancellor    had   proceeded    contrariwise.      He 


72  CALEB  STUKELY. 

tacitly  played  upon  me  when  he  ordered  the  breakfast, 
and,  without  disguise  or  reservation,  grossly  insulted 
me,  as  the  reader  has  seen. 

These  thoughts,  as  I  lay  in  bed  the  second  night, 
irritated  and  distressed  me.  To  be  sure  I  had  a  conso- 
lation, and  it  was  no  small  one.  The  Vice-chancellor 
himself  was  a  bad  man,  and  the  tone  of  young  Temple's 
mind,  whatever  might  be  its  power  or  calibre,  was  un- 
healthy and  immoral;  neither  of  them,  manifestly,  were 
men  whose  good  or  evil  opinion  ought  to  be  of  value 
or  interest  to  me,  and  I  Was  not  justified  in  accepting 
them  at  once  as  samples  of  the  body  politic.  I  had, 
beyond  all  this,  that  innate  sense  of  self-respect  which 
innocence  and  truth  engender,  and  this  acquitted  me  of 
degradation,  even  as  I  blushed  beneath  my  coverings 
for  shame.  Why  did  it  cease  to  do  so  ?  Oh  that  we 
could  keep  for  ever,  bright  and  burning,  like  the  sacred 
fires  of  old,  the  holy  light  of  purity  which  illumes  our 
fallen  nature  still !  How  much  that  now  looks  brazen- 
bold,  would  shrink  away,  and  be  dismissed  for  ever  ! 
It  is  when  the  immortal  part  of  us  burns  dull  within, 
that  sin  is  bold,  and  Satan  dangerous.  Then  is  it,  too, 
that  reason  slumbers,  and  the  virtuous  man  is  left  ta 
pine  beneath  the  scorn  and  pity  of  the  vilest.  Unpro- 
tected, and  given  over  to  itself,  the  flesh  is  tender,  and 
cannot  bear  the  breath  of  ridicule,  though  the  source 
itself  be  rotten. 

It  may  not,  on  this  account,  be  surprising  to  the 
reader,  that  although  I  had  fallen  to  sleep,  satisfied 


CALEB  STUKELY.  73 

that  nothing  had  transpired  in  which  I  had  made  a 
sacrifice  of  principle  or  character,  and  that  did  not 
reflect  rather  upon  others  than  upon  me,  I  was  unable, 
notwithstanding,  on  the  third  morning,  to  cast  off  the 
sense  of  annoyance  which  I  had  taken  to  my  pillow, 
or  to  rise  superior  to  the  deep  humiliation  which  had 
fastened  itself  upon  me. 

"  In  the  eyes  of  others,"  whispered  my  human 
pride,  "  you  are  of  no  account.  As  they  pass  by  you, 
they  read  Fool  written  on  your  forehead;  and  truly, 
as  the  Vice-chancellor  says,  this  is  not  the  last  time 
that  men  shall  use  you  for  their  sport." 

I  envied  the  happier  condition  of  those  who  had 
spent  their  days  in  the  world  making  themselves  con- 
versant with  the  doings  and  the  habits  of  men — who 
were  entitled  to  assume  a  position  in  the  community, 
and  could  command  its  respect.  And  then  I  passed 
on  to  my  own  home — shall  I  confess  it? — -blushing  by 
the  way  for  that  simple  and  domestic  grace  which  was 
its  ornament  and  honour.  Yes,  for  a  moment  I  became 
madly  impatient  and  tormented,  and  during  the  wild 
paroxysm  suffered  base  and  cruel  thoughts  to  make  a 
fiend  and  monster  of  me.  Thank  God  !  it  was  but 
for  a  moment ;  for  could  I  live  and  bear  about  with 
me  one  thought  that  should  impair  the  fulness  of  my 
filial  love  ?  Happily,  my  folly  took  another  bent. 
Burning  with  shame  for  the  indignities  I  had  suffered, 
and  determined  upon  revenge — such  a  revenge  as  in  its 
perfect  gratification  should  humble  those  who  looked 

VOL.  I.  G 


74  CALEB  STUKELY. 

upon  me  with  contempt,  and  take  from  my  own  mind 
the  smarting  sting  that  had  been  inflicted  there,  I 
made  a  zealous  vow,  and  at  once  em])arked  every 
feeling  and  desire  in  the  labour  of  the  fufilment.     The 
solemn  promise  made  to  myself  was  this:   Every  en- 
ergy and  talent  that  I  possessed,  I  resolved  hencefor- 
ward to  dedicate  to  the  pursuits  and  employments,  the 
honours  and  rewards,  of  the  University.     My  father 
and  mother  should  be  revered  for  my  sake,  and  those 
who  trifled  with  me  now,  should  be  taught  respect  for 
my  acquirements,  if  not  for  myself.     With  the  vitahty 
and  vehemence  of  a  passion,  did  the  idea  of  distinction 
force  itself  upon  my  imagination ;  and,  like  the  passion 
of  a  boy,  it  was  restless  and  uneasy  till  some  steps 
were  taken  for  its  indulgence.    Stamped  on  my  memory, 
never  to  be  obliterated,  is  the  day  on  which  I  attended 
my  first  lecture.      With   an  emulous  and  quivering 
curiosity,  I  listened  to  the  answers  of  those  who  were 
of  the  same  standing  as  myself,  and  judged  from  their 
readiness  and  ability  both  of  the  amount  of  knowledge 
that  was  arrayed  against  me,  and  the  order  of  minds 
with  which  I  had  to  contend.     As  the  papers  of  some 
were  handed  to  me  to  be  passed  on  to  the  tutor,  I 
detained  them  in  their  passage  for  one  eager  snatch  of 
sight,  in  order  to  compare  the  proofs  and  results  with 
those  I  had  already  given  on  the  same  questions.    Did 
I  discover  the  slightest  discrepancy  in  my  favour,  a 
problem  brought  out  with  less  care,  defective  only  in 
one  step,  I  hugged  the  knowledge  to  my  heart,  and  was 


CALEB  STUKELY.  75 

rejoiced  indeed.  It  was  a  sweet  gratification  to  me  to 
find,  from  the  tutor's  manner,  that  he  was  pleased  with 
my  work.  He  looked  over  my  papers  with  care  at 
first,  but  before  the  close  of  the  lecture,  he  was  con- 
tent to  give  them  a  glance,  and  to  turn  his  eye  to  the 
result.  For  some  he  had  a  word  of  complaint,  for 
others  reproof. — (He  was  an  iron  man,  knew  his  busi- 
ness well,  and  spoke  as  he  thought,  with  the  same  blunt- 
ness  to  the  friend  of  seven  years  as  to  the  stranger  of 
to-day.) — And  to  me  only,  of  the  whole  number,  did  he 
accord  his  unmodified  approbation.  "  Very  good,  Mr 
Stukely — very  good  ! "  was  the  observation  that  he 
made  upon  the  last  paper  that  I  sent  to  him.  The 
men  at  the  same  moment  looked  up  at  me,  and  I 
experienced  the  glory  of  a  triumph. 

As  I  walked  from  the  lecture,  across  the  court  to 
my  room,  the  tutor  stopped  me. 

"  What  school  do  you  come  from,  Mr  Stukely  ?  " 

I  explained  to  him  the  nature  of  my  previous  reading 
with  the  clergyman  in  our  neighbourhood. 

"  You  work  out  your  things  very  neatly.  Come  to 
my  rooms  after  hall  to-day." 

If  before  the  lecture  I  had  resolved  upon  my  plan 
of  conduct,  I  was  now  not  to  be  shaken  from  the  one 
object  of  my  life  by  any  influence  that  could  be  brought 
against  me.  I  had  gone  into  the  room,  regarding  the 
men  as  my  natural  enemies;  but  when  I  left  it,  my 
superiority,  and,  still  more,  the  implied  acknowledg- 
ment of  it  on  the  part  of  the  tutor,  had  rubbed  away 


76  CALEB  STUKELY. 

the  asperity,  and  brought  me  to  think  more  charitably  of 
them.  I  secretly  determined,  however,  upon  one  course 
of  procedure,  and  that  was,  so  to  conduct  myself  always 
before  my  competitors,  as  to  give  them  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  I  was  straining  to  beat  them,  and,  by 
every  artifice  I  could  practise,  to  keep  them  off  their 
guard,  drawing  their  attention  chiefly  to  my  own 
apparent  freedom  from  labour  and  easiness  of  dispo- 
sition. If  the  usage  I  had  received  had  effected 
nothing  else,  it  had  been  very  successful  in  sowing 
the  seeds  of  a  selfish,  sordid  hypocrisy. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  I  became  friendly  and 
familiar  with  more  than  one  under-graduate  of  my 
college.  They  courted  my  society:  I  did  not  seek 
theirs.  Amongst  the  rest,  there  was  a  man  of  the 
same  year  as  myself  He  was  of  a  reserved  and 
modest  habit,  thoughtful  and  intellectual.  In  the 
lecture-room,  he  caused  me  more  uneasiness  than  all 
the  others  together.  We  did  not  meet  the  first  day. 
He  came  up  afterwards,  and  soon — too  soon,  alas ! 
for  my  equanimity  and  comfort — he  began  co  share  in 
the  favourable  expressions  and  encomiums  of  the  tutor. 
He  was  a  tall  thin  man,  somewhat  older  than  myself, 
excessively  pale  and  weak-looking,  possessing  large 
and  piercing  black  eyes.  He  was  remarkable  for  a 
seeming  and  complete  exemption  from  all  physical 
exertion  and  suffering.  He  glided  about  so  noiselessly, 
and  his  doings  partook  so  largely  of  quietism,  that  he 
gave  you  the  notion  of  a  spirit  rather  than  of  a  human 


CALEB  STUKELY.  77 

being;  or,  you  might  suppose,  if  your  humour  were 
quaint,  that  the  soul  was  anxious  for  her  fragile  cover- 
ing, so  wasted  and  so  wan  already,  and,  for  its  safety, 
suspended  its  accustomed  privileges.  The  paucity  of 
his  words  corresponded  with  the  inactivity  of  his  body ; 
but,  if  it  were  proper  to  conclude  from  appearances, 
the  restlessness  of  his  mind  m.ade  up  for  both.  He 
had  a  noble  forehead,  and,  young  as  he  was,  a  few 
long  and  slender  hairs  only  hung  dispersed  and  strag- 
gling about  his  head,  as  though  the  incessant  working 
of  the  brain  beneath  had  blighted  and  thrown  off  the 
rest,  and  they  were  soon  to  follow.  This  individual 
had  attached  himself  to  me,  and  early  in  the  period  of 
our  acquaintance  he  would  often  follow  me  to  my 
room,  and,  without  exchanging  a  dozen  words,  sit 
listlessly  at  the  window,  his  emaciated  hand  support- 
ing his  bending  head;  or  he  would  muse,  for  an  hour 
or  two  perhaps,  over  some  dusty  work  of  metaphysics, 
faintly  smiling  when  he  approved,  and  uttering  the 
monosyllable  "  no''  as  often  as  he  differed  from  the 
author.  So  would  he  come  and  go,  careless  if  his 
visits  pleased,  and  innocent  of  the  great  alarm  they 
caused  me.  As  for  myself — knowing  how  closely  in 
the  lecture-room  he  ran  upon  my  heels,  how  easily, 
once  or  twice,  he  had  unwound  a  knotty  point,  that  in 
the  strength  of  its  entanglement  had  set  even  me  at 
bold  defiance,  and  how,  without  the  shadow  of  an 
effort,  he  executed  that  which  cost  me  the  dearest 
labour  to  accomplish — I  hated  him  most  heartily,  and 


78  CALEB  STUKELY. 

estimated  his  visits  as  you  would  the  encroachments 
of  an  adversary,  and  the  stratagems  of  a  spy.  There 
was  a  scholarship  of  some  value  open  to  freshmen,  the 
examination  for  which  took  place  at  the  close  of  the 
first  academic  year.  To  the  attainment  of  this  I 
looked  forward  with  a  sanguineness  that  could  not 
admit  the  possibility  of  failure.  I  had  set  my  mind, 
my  heart,  my  happiness,  upon  it.  It  was  the  point  in 
which  all  hope  of  after  joy  was  centred,  from  which, 
if  ever,  the  future  energies  must  radiate.  After  I  had 
tried  the  ground,  and  felt  it  sure,  to  behold  an  inter- 
loper seizing  from  my  grasp  the  prize  that  was  already 
mine  !  The  thought  was  maddening.  What  a  dis- 
comfiture and  terrible  destruction  of  all  my  lofty  aspi- 
rations ?  Were  they  to  end  in  this  ?  I  would  not 
permit  so  wretched  a  belief.  I  promised  to  devote 
myself,  with  redoubled  energy,  to  the  measures  neces- 
sary for  the  coming  battle.  I  might  reach  him  yet  ! 
Besides,  who  knew  ?  the  sum  of  my  knowledge  might 
still  exceed  his,  notwithstanding  that  his  acuteness,  in 
solitary  instances,  had  evinced  itself  at  the  moment 
superior  to  my  own.  And  again  I  thought — snidfrom 
the  thought,  the  reader  will  learn  how  rapidly  I  was 
advancing,  not  only  in  the  knowledge  of  the  doctrine 
of  chances,  but  of  all  that  was  virtuous  and  lovely  in 
morals — I  thought  that  this  sickly  fellow  could  not 
possibly  live  long;  but  looking  only  to  the  fair  pro- 
babilities of  the  case,  I  might  have  confidence  and  a 
most  reasonable  hope  that  he  would  be  rotting  in  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  79 

grave  long  before  the  hour  of  contest  should  arrive. 
I  longed,  yet  dreaded,  to  know  his  own  views..  Per- 
haps he  did  not  care  for  that  which,  for  so  many 
reasons,  was  of  inestimable  value  to  me.  Possibly, 
knowing  my  strong  desire,  he  would  not  enter  into 
competition.  What  could  a  person,  with  health  so 
delicate,  and  a  frame  so  very  ill- constituted  for  arduous 
pursuits,  expect  from  a  distinction  that  curtailed  his 
future  ease,  and  demanded  increasing  labour  to  sus- 
tain ;  since  even  scholarships,  like  the  more  worldly 
titles,  are  worthless,  unsupported?  A  little  friendly 
chat  would,  I  was  sure,  convince  a  man  of  sense  that 
his  interest  and  happiness  were  not  to  be  found  in  the 
excitement  of  college  wranglings,  for  which  physical 
power  was  no  less  essential  than  mental  attainments. 
The  arguments  were  conclusive,  and,  had  I  reasoned 
for  a  brother,  I  could  not  have  been  more  satisfied  of 
their  truth  and  justice.  It  might  be,  nevertheless,  not 
quite  so  easy  to  persuade  him;  men  generally  are 
such  very  bad  judges  of  their  own  cases,  and  their  eyes 
are  jaundiced  when  turned  upon  themselves.  Would 
he  not,  however,  on  that  account  the  more  readily 
listen  to  his  friend  ?  At  all  events  it  should  be  tried 
— but  in  what  manner?  This  was  the  difficulty. 
Once  or  twice  already  I  had  attempted  to  draw  him 
out,  but  he  had  shown  himself  so  close,  so  little  inter- 
ested in  the  whole  matter,  that  I  could  only  beat  about, 
and  retire  at  length  without  advantage.  Being  de- 
sirous that  he  should  attribute  my  friendly  advices 


80  CALEB  STUKELY. 

only  to  my  regard  for  hinij  I  was  myself  apprehensive 
of  appearing  too  earnest,  lest — for  I  was  still  in  doubt 
as  to  the  man's  real  nature — I  might  haply  be  caught 
in  my  own  snare,  and  only  expose  myself  at  last,  with- 
out learning  any  thing  from  him.  I  must  proceed 
most  cautiously. 

He  streamed  into  my  room  one  morning  as  usual, 
and  took  his  customary  seat  on  the  top  of  the  coal- 
cellar.  For  a  wonder,  he  commenced  the  conversa- 
tion, and  gave  me  the  opportunity  of  following  it  up. 

He  had  taken  from  hi^  pocket  a  very  old  copy  of  a 
sermon  by  Doctor  South. 

"  Stukely,"  he  began,  "  how  very  different  is  the 
style  of  the  intermediate  fathers,  as  we  may  call  them, 
to  that  of  our  modern  divines.  In  these  old  books  the 
thoughts  bear  heavy  on  the  words,  which  are  too  weak 
for  what  they  carry.  The  oak  is  planted  in  the  china 
vessel.  With  us  the  thought  is  like  the  needle  in  the 
hay — a  little  matter  in  a  world  of  waste,  when  found, 
not  worth  the  trouble  of  the  searcher." 

"  Did  those  men,  Grimsley,  (this  was  his  name,)  do 
much  at  College  ?  " 

This  question  found  Grimsley  reading  again,  so  that 
it  was  not  for  a  little  time  that  he  replied. 

"  What  did  you  say  just  now,  Stukely  ?  " 

"  Did  these  fathers  fag  much  when  they  were 
up?" 

(The  reader  will  perceive  how  glibly  I  could  talk 
now.) 


CALEB  STUIvELY.  81 

"  No  doubt,  a  great  deal,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Took  good  degrees,  eh  ?  " 

*'  Unquestionably." 

"  What  strong  men  they  must  have  been  !  To  look 
at  their  fine  portraits,  and  their  sturdy  figures,  printed 
in  their  books,  one  would  suppose  that  they  belonged 
to  a  much  earlier  age." 

"  No,  Stukely,  these  men  as  students  were  probably 
no  stronger  than  ourselves.  It  is  the  ease  of  later  life 
{when  the  struggles  of  ambition  have  subsided,  and 
there  is  nothing  more  to  gain)  that  brings  men  flesh, 
and  makes  them  sleek." 

"  Yet  many  die  in  the  conflict ;  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  in  some  causes  death  is  victory." 

"  Well,  to  my  thinking,  the  reward  of  toil  is  inade- 
quate to  the  cost.  Even  here,  how  much  dogged 
labour  is  necessary  to  arrive  at  the  smallest  honours  ! " 

"  I  agree  with  you.  I  would  not  purchase  their 
chief  distinctions  at  the  price  so  many  pay  for  the  most 
moderate.  What  waste  of  body  !  what  drying  up  of 
the  very  sap  of  hfe,  for  dreams  and  shadows  after  all ! 
No — the  day-labourer  in  the  open  fields  is  a  simpler 
but  a  wiser  man." 

( And  every  word  of  this  was  unctuous  matter  to  my 
soul. ) 

"  Still" — there  came  my  fit  again — "where  mode- 
rate labour — and  this  is  both  wholesome  and  needful 
— leads  eventually  to  honour,  I  cannot  but  think  it  siu 
to  keep  our  talent  idle." 


82  CALEB  STUKELT. 

"  Isn't  there,"  I  asked  carelessly,  and  determined 
now  to  probe  him  to  the  core,  "  isn't  there  something 
of  a — a  sort  of  scholarship,  that  they  try  for  in  the 
college  at  the  end  of  the  year  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  not  worth  having,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  as  I  hear,  it  is  well  worth 
having." 

"  You  mean  to  work  up  for  it  then  ?  " 

The  sword  of  Damocles  hung  over  me. 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

I  breathed. 

"  I  was  sure  you  wouldn't  think  it  vf orth  your  while. 
Come,  Grimsley,  take  a  glass  of  wine.  It's  a  very 
raw  day.  This  is  a  very  fenny  country.  Don't  you 
feel  it  ?  You  haven't  had  a  glass  of  wine  in  my  room, 
I  do  believe,  since  I  have  known  you.  It  is  really  not 
the  thing.  You  are  too  abstemious.  I  take  but  little, 
but  find  that  little  necessary.  No,  dear  Grimsley," 
continued  I,  producing  the  wine,  "  I  was  quite  satis- 
fied that  you  would  not  go  through  the  wear  and  tear 
of  a  long  examination.  Besides,  in  your  state  of 
health,  of  what  use  would  a  scholarship  be  to  you  ?  I 
consider  you  a  philosopher,  my  dear  fellow,  for  declin- 
ing it." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Grimsley,  ver\'  gently ; 
"  I  did  not  say  that  exactly — you  misunderstand  me. 
You  asked  me  if  I  intended  to  icork  up  for  the  scholar- 
ship, and  I  said,  as  I  say  now — No,  decidedly  not !    It 


CALEB  STUKELY.  83 

does  not  follow,  if  I  gain  the  scholarship  icitliout  work- 
ing up  for  it,  that  I  shall  think  proper  to  refuse  it — I 
should  most  certainly  do  no  such  thing." 

He  turned  to  his  book  with  a  sardonic  grin,  and  I 
despised  myself  forthwith  for  the  candour  (!)  into  which 
I  had  been  betrayed,  as  heartily  as  I  did  him  for  his 
artful  deceit. 

Matters  had  now  reached  the  crisis.  There  was 
clearly  no  royal  road  to  the  point  for  which  I  strove. 
Away  with  underplots  and  sleights  of  mind  !  The 
enemy  had  shown  the  cloven  foot.  It  was  now  open 
fight — face  to  face,  foot  to  foot,  or  else  give  way  at 
once.  Give  way  !  I  burned  to  think  it  possible.  Had 
I  been  inclined  to  do  so,  the  force  of  circumstances 
impelled  me  on.  In  the  college,  I  had  been  regarded 
for  some  time  as  the  man  (all  boys  are  men  at  college) 
who  must  obtain  the  scholarship.  The  voice  of  my 
fellow  students  had  given  me  a  prescriptive  claim  upon 
it.  Finding  the  contest  hopeless,  they  had  themselves 
retired,  one  after  another,  from  the  ground,  yielding  it 
to  me.  I  had  merely  to  walk  over  it.  The  tutor 
himself  had  more  than  once  advised  and  made  a  plan 
of  future  reading,  when  the  bustle  and  anxiety  of  the 
examination  should  be  over,  and  there  would  be  nothing 
further  to  contend  for.  To  sum  up  all,  in  the 
extremity  and  overflow  of  joyousness,  I  had  so  far 
committed  myself  as  to  convey  to  my  father  a  positive 
assurance  of  success,  and  to  inspire  him  with  hopes 
and  expectations  that  I  could  not  see  betrayed  and 


84  CALEB  STUKELY. 

blasted,  and  still  live.  It  was  wonderful,  indeed,  that 
in  all  their  calculations  the  under-graduates  had  made 
no  regard  of  Grimsley.  But,  as  I  have  said  before, 
he  spoke  so  very  seldom,  said  so  very  little  when  he 
did  speak,  his  movements  were  so  still  and  undisturb- 
ing,  his  attenuated  form  so  all  unlikely  to  command 
attention  or  awaken  fear,  that  they  might,  uncon- 
cerned observers  as  they  were,  find  ample  reasons  for 
their  marked  neglect  of  him.  It  was  otherwise  with 
me.  Carelessness  in  me  was  criminal.  I  dared  not 
conceal  from  myself  the  glaring  fact,  that  there  were 
energies  concealed  within  his  lathy  frame,  that,  when 
called  forth,  would  startle  by  their  power ;  that,  beyond 
this,  he  enjoyed  a  clearness  of  intellect,  an  extraordi- 
nary amount  of  knowledge,  a  facility  in  reducing  it  to 
order  and  giving  it  expression,  that  carried  him  far 
beyond  my  level.  His  coolness  and  ease,  his  modest 
demeanour  and  his  self-devotion,  made  him  only  the 
more  terrible  ;  and  I  noted  them  as  so  many  additional 
causes  for  vigilance  and  alarm  to  his  antagonist. 

Having  made  myself  acquainted  with  the  views  of 
Grimsley,  I  saw  that  it  was  necessary  to  concentrate 
all  my  attention  and  reading  upon  the  subjects  fixed 
for  the  examination,  and  to  neglect  all  else  until  the 
issue  of  that  was  known. 

Grimsley's  general  knowledge  could  not  avail  him 
there — that  was  a  comforting  reflection.  Perseverance, 
I  had  often  heard,  was  the  worst  foe  to  genius.  Let 
him  look  to  that !     As  for  defeat,  I  would  not  know 


CALEB  STUKELY.  85 

the  word.  After  my  late  interview  with  him,  I  became 
more  friendly  and  sociable  with  the  rest  of  the  under- 
graduates. I  found  more  pleasure  in  their  society,  and 
their  sympathy  and  attachment  were  most  acceptable 
to  me.  I  commended  myself  to  their  good-nature  by 
many  trifling  acts  of  kindness,  and  imperceptibly  iden- 
tified them  with  the  cause  in  which  I  was  embarked. 
Not  a  whisper  did  I  breathe  at  the  same  time  of  dan- 
ger, not  a  syllable  of  the  quarter  whence  it  threatened. 
Old  Simmonds  about  this  time  reported  to  me,  that 
he  had  heard  me  very  highly  spoken  of  by  the  fellows 
in  the  Combination  room ;  and  one  under-graduate 
( I  forget  his  name,  but  I  remember  that  once  or  twice 
I  had  worked  out  his  papers  for  him)  had  asserted  in 
Hall,  at  table,  "  that  Stukely  was  the  best  fellow  in  the 
college,  and  he  hoped  that  he  would  have  the  scholar- 
ship without  any  examination,  for  he  was  sure  no  man 
of  his  year  had  so  good  a  right  to  it." 

Curiously  enough,  as  it  may  seem,  by  the  advice  of 
my  tutor  I  placed  myself  in  the  hands  of  a  private 
tutor,  one  of  those  attaches  of  the  university,  who,  for 
a  consideration,  relieved  the  public  and  paid  tutors  from 
the  irksome  and  onerous  duties  of  their  office.  I  do  not 
know  what  alterations  and  improvements  have  taken 
place  since  my  secession  from  the  university.  Neither 
my  inclination  nor  my  occasions  have,  during  the  last 
quarter  of  a  century,  carried  me  back  to  its  proceed- 
ings. I  have  no  doubt,  however — the  more  learned 
and  better  informed  reader  will  correct  me  if  I  err — 


8G  CALEB  STUKELY. 

that  this  anomaly  and  others  have,  in  the  advance  of 
time,  been  satisfactorily  amended.  We  have  heard  of 
the  giant  strides  of  intellect,  and  the  tocsin  of  reform 
has  resounded  through  the  land,  rousing  from  their 
slumbers  the  very  hamlets  and  villages  of  the  soil  The 
priests  of  knowledge  cannot  have  slept  at  the  altar  with 
the  alarum  ringing  in  their  ears.  I  owe  it  as  a  child 
of  alma  mater,  (a  prodigal,  alas  ! )  to  infer  otherwise. 
Men  are  not  faultless,  nor  institutions  either.  That 
was  a  faulty  system  surely  that  rendered  abortive  the 
exertions  and  the  studies  of  a  man,  whose  fortunes 
denied  him  the  advantage  of  private  and  extraneous 
aid,  who,  coming  to  the  university  to  be  taught,  found 
teachers,  indeed,  wasting  their  pampered  days  in  idle- 
ness— teaching  nothing,  rioting  perhaps  on  the  pious 
charity  of  those  who  had  bequeathed  their  substance, 
emphatically,  for  the  building  up  the  maintenance  and 
the  happiness  of  England's  poor  scholars.  The  under- 
graduate of  the  present  enlightened  day  will  assured- 
ly meet  in  the  closets  of  the  tutor  and  fellows  of  his 
society,  that  instruction  which,  in  my  time,  was  only 
to  be  found  at  a  costly  rate  icithout  the  college  walls. 
Mr  Cube  of  Saint  John's  was  a  pragmatical  gentle- 
man, with  a  snub  nose  and  carbuncular  visage.  In 
days  of  yore,  St  John's  was  a  snub-nose-and-carbun- 
cular  college.  The  members  were  known  by  their 
looks.  ■  Mr  Cube  had  small  peering  eyes,  protected 
by  spectacles,  was  very  short,  but  somewhat  stout. 
Ignorant  of  the  ways  of  life,  but  desirous  at  all  times 


CALEB  STUKELY.  87 

to  display  his  good  breeding,  his  usual  expressions  of 
politeness  constituted  a  very  good  harlequinade.  You 
would  have  smiled  at  him  in  a  ball-room,  and  set  him 
down  for  a  country  dancing-master. 

His  days  were  literally  taken  up  by  his  pupils ;  he 
had  so  many  of  them.  He  enjoyed  an  extraordinary 
reputation.  He  had  crammed  all  the  best  men  for  the 
six  preceding  years,  and  his  very  name  had  become  at 
last  a  guarantee  of  success.  Hard  readers  went  to 
him  really  for  the  benefit  of  his  judgment  and  expe- 
rience, which  were  powerful  and  extensive.  Men  who 
did  not  read  at  all,  paid  him  twenty  guineas  a  term 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance ; — knowing, 
cunning  rogues !  that  there  lurked  in  it  some  very 
potent  charm,  which  would  work  miracles  for  them  on 
the  day  of  examination  in  the  Senate  House.  There 
is  a  rage  and  fashion  for  tutors  as  well  as  for  cravats 
and  ladies'  furbelows — and  Mr  Cube  was  now  in  the 
ascendant.  He  had  come  up  a  sizar,  had  taken  the 
best  decree  of  his  year,  and  his  income  was  already 
upwards  of  L.IOOO.  He  was  the  son  of  a  curate,  for- 
merly a  very  poor  one.  His  son's  success — to  that 
son's  honour  be  it  written — had  made  him  rich. 

I  explained  to  Mr  Cube  my  views  and  prospects. 
When  I  had  finished,  he  bade  me  sit  down. 

"  There  are  pens  and  ink.  See  what  you  can  make 
of  that  paper." 

In  about  an  hour  I  had  finished  the  task,  and  to  his 
satisfaction. 


88  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  Well  done,  Mr  Stukely,  well  done — that'll  do. 
What  books  are  you  reading  now  ?  " 

I  named  them. 

"  Very  well,  very  well.  Bring  them  to  me  to-mor- 
row. We'll  see  what  can  be  done.  Very  fine  day, 
very  fine  day — good-by,  good-by  ; "  and  he  fidgeted 
me  to  the  door,  and  bowed  me  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  day  I  waited  on  him. 

"  Ah,  Mr  Stukely,  how  do  you  do  ? — very  cloudy. 
Do  you  think  it  will  rain  ?  " 

It  might  be  presumed  l^^hat,  as  Mr  Cube  seldom  or 
never  left  his  room,  the  state  of  the  weather  was  a 
subject  of  comparative  indifference  to  him.  Not  so : 
the  weather  and  its  effects  were  a  constant  topic  of 
discourse. 

"  The  country  wants  rain — rain's  a  capital  thing,  if 
it  didn't  make  the  streets  so  terribly  muddy.  You 
are  very  punctual — ^just  three  minutes  and  forty-three 
seconds  before  your  time.  That's  better  than  being 
three  minutes  and  forty-three  seconds  after  it.  Take 
a  seat.  Oh,  you've  got  your  books  !  Ah,  yes  !  Well, 
we'll  to  business  at  once.  Be  seated.  You'll  observe 
the  great  secret  is  this."  The  door  was  open,  and  he 
rose  to  shut  it. 

Now  it  was  coming — the  secret — the  great  secret^  as 
he  termed  it — the  key  to  all  the  brilliant  triumphs  of 
his  pupils.  Ah,  Grimsley,  what  would  you  give  for 
this! 

"  The  great  secret,  as  I  said  before,  is  this" 


CALEB  STUKELY.  89 

"  Yes,  sir." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  sharp  knocking  at  the 
door. 

"  Come  in,"  cried  Mr  Cube. 

It  was  his  bedmaker, 

"  Sir,"  said  that  lady,  "  if  you  takes  away  the  key 
of  your  bedroom,  it's  quite  ?«zpossible  that  I  can  get 
into  it." 

Mr  Cube  fumbled  about  his  pockets  for  the  instru- 
ment, and  handed  it  to  her  with  his  usual  agitated  air 
of  politeness. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr  Stukely.  As  I  was  saying, 
the  secret  of  the  whole  matter  is  this" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  I  again. 

And  again  did  that  Tartarean  door  prevent  the  ex- 
planation I  was  bursting  to  hear. 

The  knock  this  time  was  a  soft  one.  With  many 
apologies,  Mr  Cube  once  more  rose  from  his  seat. 
Turning  the  handle  of  the  door,  he  ushered  into  the 
room  the  abominated  Grimsley. 

The  latter  bowed  to  me. 

"  Ah,  Stukely,  I  had  no  idea — I  beg  your  pardon. 
Shall  you  be  disengaged  in  an  hour.  Cube?" 

"  Oh  yes !  quite — less  than  that — very  dull  day, 
isn't  it?  so  chilly!  I  hope  we  sha'n't  have  any  snow. 
I've  heard  of  snow  in  this  month,  though.  It  would 
be  very  awkward.  You  are  sure  to  find  me  at  leisure 
in  an  hour." 

Grimsley  nodded  to  me,  and  departed. 

VOL.  I.  H 


90  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  The  secret,  Mr  Stukely,  is  this" 

'« Pray,  sir,"  said  I,  more  nervous  and  agitated  than 
1  can  express,  and  in  my  turn  interrupting  the  mo- 
mentous communication,  "  is  that  gentleman  a  pupil 
of  yours  ?  " 

"  Young  Grimsley  ? — oh,  no  ! — couldn't  afford  it — 
worthy  fellow — father  a  poor  curate  near  us  —  nine 
children — old  friend,  that's  all," 

"  Have  you  ever  told  him  the  secret  that  you  are 
about  to  communicate  to  me?" 

"  Oh,  never  talk  on  business  in  play  hours  !  Grims- 
ley, kind  soul,  reads  Shakspeare  to  me — does  it  beau- 
tifully. Talks  metaphysics — likes  them  better  than 
mathematics." 

"Well,  sir,  I  didn't  care  to  know.  It  was  only  from 
sheer  curiosity." 

"  Ah,  just  so !  Give  me  your  algebra.  You  see  this 
is  the  thing :  men  fail,  not  so  often  in  consequence  of 
reading  too  little,  as  through  reading  too  much.  You 
look  surprised ;  but  it  is  true,  nevertheless :  they  who 
throw  themselves  into  large  waters  sometimes  sink. 
The  cautious  keep  within  the  depth,  and  swim.  What 
do  you,  or  what  does  any  man,  come  to  me  for  ? — that 
he  may  take  a  good  degree :  in  order  to  that  end,  cer- 
tain questions  will  be  propounded  to  him,  which  he 
must  answer.  Get  up  those  answers,  and  forget  all 
besides."  He  opened  my  book.  "  Now,  here's  a 
proof — have  you  got  it  up  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  some  time  it  took  me  too." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  9  1 

"  Just  SO.     You  found  it  stiff  ?  " 
"  No  end,  sir ;  but  it's  a  beautiful  proof." 
"  No  doubt  of  it.     But  I  have  been  here  upwards 
of  ten  years,  and  have  not  seen  its  face  in  any  exami- 
nation paper  yet.     Comus  is  a  very  beautiful  poem, 
but  if  you  had  it  at  your  fingers'  ends,  stops  and  all, 
it  wouldn't  get  you  one  mark  in  the  senate-house." 
"  I  read  it  with  a  view  to  my  general  improvement." 
"  General   improvement,   general   knowledge,   and 
general  literature,   are  not  academic  terms;  all  per- 
haps very  good  in  their  proper  places,  but  sad  blocks 
in  the  way  of  a  good  degree.     Here's  a  formula,  have 
you  it  by  heart  ?  " 

"  No,  sir — but  I  have  a  shorter  one,  which  I  think 
better." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mr  Stukely,  this  won't  do  at  all. 
You  are  on  a  wrong  track.  It  may  be  the  finest  that 
ever  was  written  ;  but  until  you  can  persuade  the  exa- 
miners that  it  is  so,  you  wall  derive  no  benefit  from 
the  fact.  The  fdlows  who  set  the  papers,  are  as 
jealously  fond  of  their  old  forms  and  expressions  as  a 
mother  of  her  babies.  If  you  alter  a  verb  or  a  noun, 
nay  more,  if  you  reject  in  a  sentence  a  verb  that  has 
stood  from  time  immemorial  in  the  shape  of  an  infini- 
tive, only  to  restore  it  in  the  more  lively  garb  of  a 
participle,  you'll  vex  and  distress  them,  and  put  them 
out  of  humour  with  you  and  your  papers,  how  great 
soever  may  be  their  merit  and  yours  in  every  other 
respect." 


92  CALEB  STUKELT. 

"  If  the  substance  and  sense  are  correct,  may  we 
not  use  our  own  words  to  illustrate  them  ?  " 

"  You  may,  certainly,  if  you  wish  to  cut  your  own 
throat,  but  you'll  most  certainly  not  be  understood. 
Sense  is  one  thing,  words  are  another;  and  so  attached 
are  the  examiners  to  the  strict  use  of  the  latter,  that, 
if  they  were  compelled  to  acknowledge  a  preference,  I 
verily  believe  they  would  answer,  as  the  Lord  Hamlet 
does  in  the  play,  '  words,  ivords,  loords.^  Kow  remem- 
ber this  above  all  things,  and  note  well  the  pencil 
marks  I  am  about  to  make  in  your  book.  Wherever 
I  put  the  sign />Zw5  (4-j)  pass  on  without  reading  at 
all.  Ask  no  questions.  What  I  desire  you  to  neglect, 
may  possibly  be  useful,  instructive,  and  good;  but 
unfortunately  it  will  do  nothing  for  you.  '  The  worth 
of  a  thing,  is  what  it  will  bring ;'  and  if  this  brings 
you  nothing  in  the  shape  of  marks,  it  is  worth  nothing. 
We  have  no  time  to  throw  away  upon  knowledge  for 
the  sake  of  itself.  I  intend  that  you  should  read  once 
all  those  parts  against  which  you  will  find  a  circle 
drawn  so,  (o;)  but  wherever  you  find  this  figure  of  a 
triangle  (a,)  read,  and  read  to  your  soul's  content. 
Don't  omit  a  preposition,  a  syllable,  a  sign,  a  stop ; 
read  till  the  matter  is  as  familiar  to  you  as  your  own 
name.  Have  it  by  heart,  if  it  is  possible,  for  that's 
most  agreeable ;  at  all  events,  by  rote.  Repeat  it 
when  you  walk — with  your  grace  before  meals — and 
in  your  bed  after  prayers.  Dream  of  it  if  you  can, 
and,  if  you  are  fond  of  music,  sing  it  to  your  favourite 


CALEB  STUKELY.  93 

tunes.  And  whilst  I  run  through  your  book,"  con- 
tinued Mr  Cube,  handing  me  a  paper,  "  work  out 
these  problems,  and  do  them  slowly  and  safely.  Never 
work  in  a  hurry,  A  false  multiplication  may  ruin  a 
man  for  life." 

And  under  such  skilful  pilotry  did  I  pass  days  and 
nights  in  the  prosecution  of  my  one  great  purpose,  fever- 
ish and  anxious  always,  but  driven  on  by  the  most  re- 
sistless of  all  human  impulses.  The  plan  of  study  forced 
upon  me  by  Mr  Cube,  expedient  as  I  believed  it  to 
be,  was  in  itself  disagreeable  and  most  unsatisfactory. 
It  was  drudgery,  the  most  enervating.  The  mind 
revolted  from  the  iron  yoke,  and  yearned  again  for 
freedom,  for  that  unshackled  perfect  liberty  which  is 
its  birthright,  in  the  blessed  enjoyment  of  which, 
knowledge  is  beauty,  power,  dignity,  enduring  wealth ; 
deprived  of  it,  is  lumber,  dross,  rust,  refuse — any 
thing  that  loads,  disfigures,  and  degrades. 

Teachers  of  the  young,  fosterers  of  the  germs  of 
that  capacity  which  we  call  mind,  beware !  It  is  a 
heavenly  principle  that  you  do  take  in  trust.  Touch 
charily,  and  with  a  pious  hand,  the  image  of  your 
God! 

Frequent  had  been  the  communications  that  had 
passed  between  my  parents  and  myself.  From  my 
father  I  received  the  strongest  encouragement;  and 
every  argument  that  could  incite  me  to  perseverance, 
again  and  again  did  he  reiterate.  Blindness  of  human 
wisdom!     How   little  did  the  old  man  dream  that 


94  CALEB  STUKELY. 

he  was  adding  fuel  to  the  flame  that  was  con- 
suming me — poison  to  the  canker  bit  that  fed  upon 
my  vitals.  My  tender  mother — tender  is  a  mother 
always — with  that  unworldly  virtue  so  peculiar  to 
her  sex,  implored  me  to  make  no  sacrifice  of  health 
or  happiness  for  the  highest  honour  that  lay  within 
my  reach.  "  What  satisfaction,  Caleb,"  she  said  feel- 
ingly in  one  of  her  letters,  "to  your  poor  mother  would 
be  the  highest  rewards  you  could  obtain,  purchased  at 
the  price  of  what  is  dearest  to  me  in  life  ?  No,  my 
dear  boy,  return  in  health"  to  me  as  you  left  us ;  there 
is  no  cause  that  can  justify  a  tampering  with  the 
choicest  blessing  of  our  condition." 

A  summer  and  a  winter  had  passed  away.  Spring 
had  again  burst  forth  in  vigour,  enlivening  the  dull  face 
of  nature ;  the  sun  grew  warmer,  and  once  more  the  im- 
patient buds,  breaking  from  imprisonment,  unfolded  to 
the  scented  air.  The  second  summer  had  arrived,  and 
found  still  undiminished  the  iron  rigour  of  my  service. 
Heedless  of  my  mother's  words,  I  had  spent  a  year  in 
toil,  unflinching,  and  indeed  most  trying.  Through 
lack  of  exercise,  and  the  constant  sedentary  occupation, 
my  body  had  become  weak,  my  nerves  unstrung,  and  my 
pale  face  and  sunken  eye  true  chroniclers  of  what  was 
rife  within.  My  will  and  strong  determination  were, 
as  at  first,  unconquered  and  invincible.  The  issue  of 
the  struggle  was  at  hand.  I  was  prepared  for  it. 
During  the  winter  I  had  suffered  a  month's  severe 
illness.     Being,  by  nature,  of  a  susceptible  tempera- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  95 

ment,  small  matters,  if  they  jarred  or  jangled  with  my 
desires,  fretted  me  to  a  high  degree.     The  agitation 
induced  by  the  novelty  and  exciting  character  of  my 
pursuits,  in  conjunction  with  a  sharp  cold,  brought  on 
eventually  a  state  of  fever  which  in  a  night  prostrated 
me,  kept  me  to  my  bed,  and  for  a  short  time  caused 
great  apprehension  for  my  safety  in  the  minds  of  those 
to  whose  care  I  was  intrusted.     During  the  attack, 
from  which   I  recovered  very  slowly,  Simmonds  had 
been  my  constant  attendant,  nor  could  any  persuasion 
prevail  upon  him  to  leave  me  until  I  was  thoroughly 
restored  again.     When  I  was  first  taken  ill  he  made 
himself  a  bed  upon  the  floor  of  the  sitting-room,  and 
night  after  night  did  he  there  lie,  more  awake  than 
asleep,  listening  to  my  breathings,  and  to  my  every 
turn,  ready  with  the  drink  whenever  I  was  athirst, 
and  punctual  as  a  clock  with  the  medicines,  which  he 
was  so  anxious  that  I  should  take  not  one  second 
sooner  or  later  than  the  time  prescribed  upon  the  label. 
Within  this  old  man's  withered  case,  there  throbbed  a 
woman's  heart.     The  aff'ections  of  the  softest  of  that 
soft  sex  were  not  more  fond,  her  patient  and  religious 
confidence  more  constant  and  enduring.      How  often, 
when  I  was  rendered  peevish  and  almost  insolent  by 
the  pangs  of  suffering  which  the  bare  thought  of  a  pro- 
tracted illness  gave  rise  to,  did  the  good  Simmonds, 
with  kind  compassion  and  with  bland   expressions, 
(others  would  have  turned  their  back  upon  ingrati- 
tude,) soothe  and  allay  the  boiling  surf,  and  earnestly 


96  CALEB  STUKELY. 

endeavour  to  restore  my  thoughts  to  calm  and  quiet 
flow  !  How  often,  afterwards,  when  his  bright  pattern 
brought  me  to  myself,  and  made  me  love  him  with  a 
melting  heart,  would  he  draw  near  to  my  bedside,  and, 
with  a  tremulous  and  slender  voice,  read  from  the  Holy 
Book  the  passages  upon  which  his  faith,  and  hope, 
and  happiness  were  fixed,  and  of  whose  power  and 
eternal  truth  the  old  man  lived  a  memorable  exem- 
plar. 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  decay,  so  busy  and  so  useful  in 
the  world,  so  near  its  leavetaking — to  behold  tht  spark, 
so  beautifully  light  and  clear,  upon  the  eve  of  being 
quenched  for  ever. 

In  connexion  with  this  worthy  man,  let  me  make 
one  remark.  The  experience  of  many  days  has  taught 
me  the  reasonableness  of  an  ardent  prayer  to  Heaven, 
that,  as  we  still  move  on  in  life,  travelling,  as  of  ne- 
cessity we  are,  gradually  and  imperceptibly,  day  by 
day,  further  from  the  freshness,  the  joyousness,  and  the 
romantic  ardour  of  our  youth,  we  may  be  privileged  to 
carry  on  with  us  the  remembrance  at  least,  if  not  a 
single  vestige,  of  our  bright  experience ;  so  shall  we 
be  blessings  to  the  young,  neither  churlish  nor  discon- 
tented ourselves,  nor  a  source  of  uneasiness  to  others. 
Let  us  bear,  in  our  age,  only  that  knowledge  of  our 
youth  that  will  suffice  to  save  the  old  man  from  be- 
coming the  envier  of  the  young;  for  what  is  that  in- 
cessant evil-eyeing  of  the  amusement  of  early  life — those 
surly,  fretful,  and  over-hasty  complainings  at  its  plea- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  97 

sures — but  envy,  the  most  malignant,  the  most  odious, 
and  the  most  unprofitable  ?  Yes,  let  us  pray  that  our 
sunset  may  be  streaked  with  the  memories  and  sha- 
dows only  of  the  brilliant  dawn.  Such  was  the  case 
with  Him  whose  lowly  spirit  long  has  dwelt  in  heaven ; 
such  is  the  case  when,  here  and  there,  you  have  beheld, 
no  doubt,  as  I  have,  the  past  and  future  generation, 
so  to  speak,  chained  by  a  link  of  love,  joined  in  har- 
mony on  earth — the  grandfather  and  the  grandchild 
bound  in  life  by  sympathy  and  strong  affection. 

It  was  a  mild  summer's  evening,  and  I  quitted  my 
room  with  a  disordered  body  and  not  less  perturbed 
mind.  I  walked  through  the  pensive  and  shaded  alleys 
that  adorn  the  various  colleges,  bestowing  a  rural  grace 
that  marks  them  from  the  naked  barrenness  beyond, 
each  college  standing  in  a  waste — a  thing  of  beauty  in 
itself.  The  air  was  balmy,  and  the  setting  sun  poured 
forth  a  golden  stream  of  light,  that  broke  into  a  thou- 
sand particles,  and  settled  in  surpassing  brilliancy  on 
every  object  and  in  every  nook.  More  like  the  palace 
of  the  Fairy  tale,  for  every  pane  of  glass  one  spotless 
dazzling  diamond,  shone  forth  that  college,  the  noblest 
in  the  world,  on  which  I  now  looked  back. 

It  was  the  evening  preceding  the  examination,  and 
I  waited,  by  appointment,  on  Mr  Cube. 

"  Here's  an  evening,  Stukely ! "  exclaimed  the  tutor 
as  I  entered  the  room.  "  Delicious,  is  it  not  ?  look 
at  the  thermometer.  Eighty  in  the  shade  all  day. 
What's  the  matter  ?  you  look  pale.     You  have  been 

VOL.  I.  I 


98  CALEB  STUKELY. 

sitting  too  long  again  to-day.  Well,  your  troubles 
will  soon  be  over." 

«  Yes,  thank  Heaven  !" 

"  How  many  days  are  there  to  be?" 

«  Five." 

"  What  hour  do  you  go  in  to-morrow  ?'* 

"  Nine." 

"  Very  well.  Suppose  we  run  over  your  first  day's 
subject  now.  I  have  scribbled  some  questions  for  you. 
Write  them  out;"  and  he  walked  to  the  open  window. 
"  Bless  my  heart,  this  is  weather  indeed  !" 

It  was  late  when  I  left  Mr  Cube's  rooms,  and 
returned  to  my  own.  I  had  answered  all  his  questions 
correctly,  with  the  exception  of  three.  I  did  not  feel 
myself  secure  in  that  branch  of  my  subject  to  which 
these  questions  referred ;  and  I  spent  a  great  portion 
of  this,  my  last  night,  in  reading  it  once  more  over. 
Day  had  dawned — the  free  and  blithesome  birds  were 
twittering  in  the  morning  air — the  dews  were  glitter- 
ing in  the  sunny  light.  I  closed  my  book,  and  happy 
men  were  leaping  from  their  beds  as  I  sought  rest  in 
mine. 

When  I  entered  the  room  set  apart  for  the  trial  of 
strength,  the  clock  striking  nine,  some  dozen  men  were 
already  assembled.  For  the  sake  of  form,  but  not 
with  the  most  distant  prospect  or  notion  even  of  suc- 
cess, they  were  about  to  take  their  seats  at  the  broad 
table  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  amply  fur- 
nished with  the  materia  for  the  coming  war.     They  all 


CALEB  STURELY.  99 

shook  me  heartjly  by  the  hand,  and  were  confident  in 
their  anticipations  of  the  result  of  the  proceeding,  which 
still  they  could  not  consider  as  admitting  the  slightest 
doubt. 

"  We  must  have  a  supper,  Stukely,"  said  a  fat  youth, 
whose  father  was  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 

"  Copus,  and  no  mistake,"  rejoined  a  thinner  gen- 
tleman with  a  turgid  countenance  and  a  blearing  eye, 
strong  indications  of  his  favourite  habit,  "  a  thing's 
not  legal  till  it's  christened.  You  get  the  scholarship, 
and  we'll  wet  it  for  you." 

"  Ah,  as  you  say,  get  it — that's  well  advised  !  If  I 
were  as  clever  at  getting  as  you  are  at  wetting,  the 
matter's  done ;  but  this  is  not  so  clear." 

"  Come,  get  out  of  that,  and  sink  the  blarney  if  you 
please,"  responded  my  bibacious  friend.  "  Isn't  it  as 
clear  as  bricks  that  you  are  the  man  ?  Doesn't  every 
body  know  it ;  and  hasn't  your  own  coach  said  done  to 
it  six  months  ago  ?  " 

"  If  you  mean  to  have  kidneys,"  said  the  young 
Lord  Mayor,  in  continuation,  still  harping  on  the  sup- 
per, "  do  tell  that  wretch  of  a  cook  to  broil  them  for 
Christians,  and  not  to  season  them  with  cayenne  as  if 
he  were  dishing  them  up  for  devils." 

The  tutor  entered  the  room,  followed  by  a  few  men 
who  had  loitered  about  the  door,  some  laughing  and 
jesting,  others  inhaling  the  summer  air  until  his  arrival. 
The  last  who  entered  was  Grimsley.  The  expression 
of  his  features  was,  as  usual,  free  from  all  excitement. 


100  CALEB  STUKELT. 

and  he  seated  himself  at  the  table  with  his  shy  and 
native  unobtrusiveness.  I  sat  opposite  to  him,  and 
gazed  on  his  lank  form  with  fear  and  wonder.  Extreme 
quiet  in  any  thing  produces  awe  in  the  beholder.  It 
is  painful  to  witness  the  heavy  silence  of  a  sultry  day, 
and  terrible  sometimes  is  the  storm  that  it  foretells. 
The  examination  papers  were  distributed.  I  watched 
my  adversary's  bearing  for  a  moment,  as  his  eye  passed 
over  them — gathering,  however,  nothing  from  the 
scrutiny — then,  with  a  most  intense  and  eager  view, 
turning  to  my  own,  I  endeavoured  at  a  glance  to  be 
possessed  of  all  that  was  to  do.  I  could  not  read  the 
wording  of  the  questions.  It  was  too  slow  an  opera- 
tion. I  saw  their  general  bearing,  their  scope  and 
gist.  One  look  might  satisfy  me  as  to  that ;  and  oh, 
relief  and  ecstasy,  as  I  proudly  placed  the  sheet  before 
me,  and  knew  that  this  one  day  at  least  the  strength 
was  equal  to  the  task  !  In  the  course  of  an  hour,  our 
company  had  sensibly  decreased.  The  Lord  Mayor 
became  hungry,  and  retired  to  lunch.  The  man  of 
drink  was  troubled  with  a  tickling  in  the  throat,  and 
could  not  write  another  line  until  he  was  relieved.  One 
could  not  work ;  he  never  could  whilst  men  were 
making  such  a  scritch-scratcli  with  their  pens,  and  this 
poor  soul  had  fainted  from  his  infancy,  confined  in 
close  oppressive  atmospheres.  Six  out  of  sixteen  then 
remained.  In  the  afternoon,  including  Grimsley  and 
myself,  four  only  were  found  constant  to  the  table. 
He  proceeded  steadily,  apparently  without  fatigue.    I 


CALEB  STUKELY.  101 

laboured  on,  well  satisfied  with  the  accuracy  of  my 
work — delighted  with  my  progress.  The  hours  allot- 
ted were  from  nine  till  twelve,  and  in  the  afternoon 
from  one  till  four.  At  three,  Grimsley  had  finished. 
He  laid  his  pen  aside — folded  up  his  papers,  then 
rising  gently,  as  though  he  feared  to  hinder  or  perplex 
the  rest,  he  softly  went  on  tip-toe  through  the  room, 
and  took  his  leave.  "  He  has  not  answered  all ;  he 
could  not,  I  am  sure."  Such  was  my  thought,  though 
I  might  scarcely  stay  to  think,  so  close  had  grown  the 
struggle  between  the  hours  and  me.  It  wanted  but  a 
minute  to  the  time  when  I  had  done.  My  hand  would 
hardly  hold  the  pen  for  pain,  but  the  brave  limb  had 
done  its  duty  nobly. 

Thus  for  four  days  did  we  proceed.  At  the  close 
of  every  one  I  did  not  fail  to  spend  an  hour  or  two 
with  Mr  Cube,  reporting  progress,  and,  as  it  were, 
renewing  the  supplies.  It  was  strange  that  every  day 
Grimsley  should  have  finished  at  least  an  hour  before 
me.  Still  it  was  a  favourable  sign,  and  gave  me  hope 
and  courage.  I  went  into  the  room  on  the  last  mor- 
ning with  a  lighter  heart  than  I  had  hitherto  borne, 
and  certainly  less  alarmed  for  the  decision.  From  the 
second  day  up  to  this  time  the  competitors  had  been 
four — a  heavy  built  man,  disagreeable  in  his  manners, 
who  knew  nobody  and  whom  nobody  cared  to  know, 
by  name  Smithson ;  a  young  man  whose  family  resided 
in  Cambridge,  and  who  was,  in  consequence  compelled 
to  attend ;  Grimsley,  and  myself.     Since  the  conver- 


102  CALEB  STUKELY. 

sation  that  I  had  held  with  him  in  my  room,  very  little 
communication  had  taken  place  between  us.  In  the 
examination-room  we  had  only  bowed.  I  hated  him 
because  he  was  so  artful,  and  his  persevering  opposi- 
tion had  not  mitigated  the  feeling.  Once  more  we 
took  our  places,  and  once  more  the  papers  were  hand- 
ed to  us.  I  ran  them  over,  and  was  most  distressed 
to  find  that  the  majority  of  questions  were  such  as, 
under  the  direction  of  the  too-confiding  Mr  Cube,  I 
had  either  neglected  altogether,  or,  seeing  the  fatal 
(O)  annexed  to  them,  had  read  only  once,  and  there- 
fore most  ineffectually.  Alas  !  my  mortification  was 
excessive.  But  I  looked  instinctively  at  Grimsley, 
and  to  my  unbounded  joy  perceived  him,  or  I  was 
grievously  mistaken,  as  nonplussed  as  myself.  His 
arms  were  folded,  resting  on  the  table — his  paper  lay 
before  him,  and  his  head  bending  over  it  with  a  most 
gratifying  air  of  serene  embarrassment.  Had  I  been 
dubious  on  the  point,  his  closing  the  papers  at  twelve 
o'clock,  and  his  leaving  the  room  with  his  customary 
silence  at  the  same  moment,  was  convicting  evidence. 
Now,  granting  that  I  had  beaten  him  on  the  prece- 
ding day,  if  we  were  only  equal  on  this,  I  had  still 
the  advantage.  Consoled  by  this  reflection,  with  my 
paper  not  half  answered,  I  rose  about  two  o'clock  and 
hastened  to  the  author  of  the  mischief. 

"  Well,  Stukely,"  said  Mr  Cube,  «  you're  out 
early  to-day.     Floored  the  paper — eh  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly.     It  has  floored  me." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  103 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

I  explained. 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  the  tutor — "  it's  that  sly-boots 
Decimal.  He  set  the  papers.  Great  enemy  of  mine. 
Knew  my  plan  of  reading.  Did  it  to  sell  you  and 
bother  me." 

"  It's  very  hard,  though,"  said  I,  pettishly,  "  that  I 
should  suffer  from  his  aversion  to  you." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  fortune  of  war !  Make 
yourself  happy.  I'll  return  the  compliment  one  of 
these  fine  days.  Talking  of  fine  days,  such  a  con- 
tinuation of  glorious  weather  I  don't  remember  since 
I  was  twelve  years  old." 

It  was  the  custom,  a  few  days  after  a  college 
examination,  to  affix  in  the  hall  a  paper  containing  the 
names  of  all  the  competitors,  written  in  the  order  of 
their  merit.  He  who  had  gained  the  first  place,  would 
appear  first  on  the  list,  and  so  on.  In  due  course  the 
morning  came  that  was  to  realize  or  wither  my  best 
hopes,  to  compensate,  I  fondly  trusted,  for  the  melan- 
ciioly  servitude  and  self-denial  of  the  year  that  had 
elapsed.  Nervous,  indeed,  I  was,  and  most  impatient 
and  unquiet.  Upon  going  to  rest  the  previous  night, 
I  determined  to  lie  asleep,  if  possible,  until  a  very 
late  hour,  and  to  rise  just  as  the  announcement  was 
put  up,  so  that  nothing  should  intervene  between  my 
rising  and  rushing  to  the  Hall  for  the  result.  But 
this  I  found  to  be  impracticable.  I  was  restless  all 
night,  and  restless  in  the  morning.     When  daylight 


104  CALEB  STUKELY. 

peered  into  the  room,  I  felt  that  I  should  go  mad  if 
I  lay  longer  unemployed.  A  good  walk  far  into  the 
country  would,  I  conceived,  divert  the  current  of  my 
thoughts,  and  give  tone  and  cheerfulness  to  my  jaded 
spirits.  I  might  return  about  an  hour  after  the 
declaration  was  made,  the  men  would  see  me  fresh 
from  the  trip,  and  would  not  fail  to  observe,  that  the 
only  party  who  looked  with  unconcern  to  the  state  of 
the  poll,  was  the  very  individual  who  was  himself  at 
the  head  of  it.  This  step  I  adopted.  I  took  the  ferry 
across  the  water,  streamed  on  through  fields,  farm- 
yards, and  villages;  now  watching  the  stately  move- 
ments of  a  large  family  of  geese,  now  sitting  beside 
some  ruminating  cow,  and  vainly  sighing  that  vaccine 
peace  and  quiet  were  not  communicable  as  vaccine 
pus.  Sometimes  I  listened  to  the  w^ild  melody  of 
unseen  birds,  and  one  long  hour  I  passed  in  a  roadside 
public-house,  trifling  with  the  words  of  an  old  news- 
paper— reading  the  lines  backwards,  or  turning  them 
into  unmeaning  anagrams ;  and  tired  of  that  at  last, 
scratching  on  the  window  with  a  pin,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, the  name  of  Grimsley.  How  strange  the 
fiend  should  haunt  me  when  I  had  taken  so  much 
pains  to  exorcise  him  ! 

I  returned  to  Cambridge  after  an  absence  of  some 
hours,  walking  with  good  speed  until  I  entered  the 
town,  then  sauntering  through  it,  and  afterwards  into 
the  college,  with  a  most  idle  and  indifferent  air.  It 
must  be  an  experienced  player  to  act  well  so  difficult 


CALEB  STUKELY.  105 

a  part.  I  first  sped  to  my  room.  Nobody  was  there  ; 
but  I  spied  from  the  window  old  Simmonds  crawling 
along  the  court,  his  bending  body  still  more  bent,  his 
palsied  gait  more  trembling  and  inert.  He  had  that 
very  moment  issued  from  the  Hall,  and  was  possessed 
of  all  I  burned  and  feared  to  know.  I  tapped  gently 
on  the  glass.  The  old  man  looked  quickly  round: 
his  face  was  ghastly  pale.  Poor  creature,  he  was  ill ! 
He  did  not  see  me — if  he  did,  he  ivould  not,  for  he 
went  on  his  road.  I  shook  with  terror,  and  grew  sick 
at  heart.  "  Why  does  the  old  man  look  so  white  ? — 
he  loves  me,  and  he  knows  that  I  have  set  my  life 
upon  the  cast.  Present  fears,"  thought  I,  "  are  less 
than  horrible  imaginings.  I  should  be  easy  any  way, 
if  I  were  only  satisfied.  Suspense  is  dreadful."  With 
a  bold  step,  I  left  my  room  and  trode  across  the  court, 
and  then  into  the  Hall.  Many  men  were  there.  As 
I  entered,  they  walked  back  a  step  or  two,  and  looked 
upon  me  with  an  eye  of  sorrow  and  commiseration. 
It  was  enough.  Grimsley  was  there — I  could  have 
struck  him  dead  at  my  foot.  I  approached  the  paper. 
My  eye  became  dizzy  as  I  read  three  names  following 
each  other  in  this  succession — 

Smithson. 

Stukely. 

Grimsley. 
For  a  moment  I  was  blind  and  stunned.     I  could 
not  speak.     The  rest  were  silent.     I  reeled  to  my 
room — I  know  not  how  I  reached  it ;  and  there  sat, 


106  CALEB  STUKELT. 

the  tears  dropping  and  dropping  from  eyes  that  nature 
should  have  parched  up,  the  old  man  who  had  coiled 
about  my  heart !  I  recollect  nothing  more.  I  fell 
down  before  him,  as  though  stricken  to  the  earth  by 
a  thunder-stone. 


CALEB  STUKELT.  107 


PART    III. 

COLLEGE. 


Thus  the  warm  youth 


Whom  love  deludes  into  his  thorny  wilds, 
Through  flowery  tempting  paths,  or  leads  a  life 
Of  fever'd  rapture,  or  of  cruel  care  ; 
His  brightest  aims  extinguish'd  all,  and  all 
His  lively  moments  running  down  to  waste. 

Thomson. 

Providence  has  wisely  ordained  that  the  occupa- 
tions of  mankind,  comprehending  those  of  childhood, 
boyhood,  and  the  more  serious  transactions  of  manhood, 
shall  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  duties,  and  be  invested, 
as  they  successively  rise  up,  with  an  importance  of  the 
most  absorbing  and  exclusive  character.  I  say  wisely, 
because  although,  no  doubt,  in  many  instances,  the 
consequence  that  is  attached  to  human  events  is 
factitious,  and  inversely  to  their  actual  significance  ; 
yet,  if  such  a  provision  did  not  exist,  it  is  greatly  to 
be  feared  that  a  healthy  regard  to  our  moral  state 
and  improvement,  and  the  necessary  labour  that  is 
required  for  our  well-doing  and  success,  would  both  be 
lost  sight  of.     It  is  only  by  meeting  the  exigencies  of 


108  CALEB  STUKELY. 

life  with  the  juice  and  marrow  of  our  energies,  that  we 
are  able  to  satisfy  the  demand ;  and  it  is  only  by 
attaching  momentous  weight  to  the  incidents  of  our 
condition,  that  we  can  at  all  hope  to  find  strength  and 
ability  to  pass  onward  and  through  them.  It  is  a 
curious  employment  in  the  latter  days  for  the  eye  of 
experience  to  look  back  upon  the  past,  and  to  feign  a 
huge  surprise  that  so  many  trifling  matters,  now  passed 
into  oblivion,  should  have  roused  up  in  former  years  so 
many  great  alarms,  demanded  such  heart-searching 
cares,  engrossed  so  many  sleepless  nights.  But  no 
less  curious  is  it  for  us  to  behold  experience  turn  from 
the  contemplation  of  the  past  to  the  doings  of  the  presejit, 
and  to  find  the  wise  and  the  aged  harassed  by  the 
smallest  accident,  busy  in  contrivances,  overwhelmed 
in  careful  thought,  wholly  taken  up  with  the  occupation 
of  the  moment,  which  in  a  night  shall  be  forgotten,  or 
regarded  with  a  placid  eye,  but  is  now  dwelt  upon  as 
if  the  only  business  of  his  life  was  knotted  and  bound 
up  in  it.  What  can  be  said  of  such  a  one,  but  that 
he,  and  all  of  us,  have  instincts  like  the  meaner  animals, 
and  nature  worketh  wisely  ? 

As  I  myself  review  the  early  days  of  my  career,  I 
cannot  sufiiciently  marvel  at  the  engrossing  nature  of 
my  college  pursuits.  How  disproportionate  do  they 
now  seem  to  the  daily  fears,  the  constant  anxieties,  the 
deep  distresses,  and  the  ceaseless  tear  and  wear  of 
spirit,  that  they  occasioned  I  I  cannot  but  think  that 
it  would  be  far  otherwise  were  they  to  return  upon 


CALEB  STUKELY  109 

me  now.  Alas  !  why  should  I  deceive  myself?  The 
same  events  would  to-day  claim  the  same  tribute. 
Let  the  unerring  fact  plead  with  the  reader  for  the 
minuteness  with  which  I  dwell  upon  my  Cambridge 
days. 

I  woke  from  the  state  of  syncope  into  which  I  had 
been  thrown  by  the  unhappy  result  of  the  contest,  to 
be  conscious  of  a  degradation,  deep  and  insupportable. 
What  could  I  do  ?  Whither  should  I  go  ?  How 
escape  from  the  ridicule  which  every  man  would  cast 
upon  me  ?  To  have  been  beaten  was  now  not  the 
consideration.  To  be  known  as  defeated — to  be  recog- 
nized as  the  man  who  had  so  modestly  condescended 
to  receive  the  premature  congratulation  of  his  friends 
— who  had  made  sure  of  his  prize,  aud  missed  it  after 
all ! — to  live  in  the  college,  a  memorable  instance  of 
disappointed  hope  and  vanquished  self-sufficiency ; — 
this,  all  this,  was  not  to  be  borne.  I  walked  about  in 
my  room  in  a  state  of  inconceivable  wretchedness 
and  mental  disturbance.  Simmonds  sat  over  the  fire, 
imploring  me  to  be  at  peace,  and  raking  away  at  the 
cinders  to  conceal  his  own  too  evident  grief. 

"  Do  not  take  on  so,  sir,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  what 
is  the  use  of  it  ?     This  only  makes  matters  worse." 

"O  Simmonds!"  I  exclaimed,  "what  will  the 
men  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  what  will  they  think  next  year,"  asked 
Simmonds,  with  a  vain  attempt  at  cheerfulness,  "  when 
you  have  beaten  every  one  of  them  ?  " 


110  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  And  my  poor  father,  what  will  he  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  can  he  say,  sir  ?  Every  body  knows 
you  did  your  best " 

"  No,"  I  answered  quickly,  "  I  did  not  do  my  best ; 
this  would  not  have  happened  if  I  had.  I  have  been 
too  careless  all  through,  and  this  is  the  consequence." 
'  "  If  you  had  not  been  so  ill,  I  am  sure  you  would 
have  done  a  great  deal  more.  You  were  knocked  up 
before  you  went  in." 

I  was  appeased  by  the  good  man's  remark. 

"  Yes,  Siramonds,  I  was  ill — very  ill— and  the  men 
must  have  observed  it.     Do  you  not  think  so  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  sir ;  and  Mr  Smithson  has  such  a 
constitution  !  I  am  sure  nothing  would  bring  his  flesh 
down.     Doesn't  he  look  like  it  ?  " 

"  He  looks  more  like  a  bricklayer  than  a  gentle- 
man," I  answered  pettishly.  "  Who  is  this  Smithson  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know,  sir  ?  He  is  Mr  Squareroot's 
nephew,  and  the  son  of  a  Norfolk  clergyman." 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  almost  knocked  down  with 
surprise,  "  what  is  it  you  say  ?  Smithson,  the  tutor's 
nephew  ?     Squareroot's — the  tutor's  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  the  tutor's." 

"  This,  then,  is  the  secret  of  it  all."  (Ah  me  !  why 
was  I  so  eager  to  jump  at  any  but  the  simple  and 
apparent  cause  of  my  defeat  ?)  "  No  wonder  that  I 
am  beaten.  Newton  would  not  have  been  successful. 
Indeed  he  would  not.  And  poor  Grimsley,  too,"  (this 
with  marked  tenderness,)  "no  wonder  that  your  quiet 


CALEB  STUKELT.  Ill 

spirit  and  cultivated  mind  were  doomed  to  succumb  ! 
Is  this  generally  known,  Simmonds  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bless  you  !  yes,  sir.  In  the  college  all  the 
gentlemen  know  it;  but  he  is  not  a  great  favourite 
with  them.  He  is  not  very  friendly  in  his  manner, 
and  he  keeps  a  good  deal  to  himself." 

"  Now  answer  me,  Simmonds.  Do  not  you,  for  one, 
feel  satisfied  that  favour  has  been  shown  to  Smithson, 
and  I  have  lost  the  scholarship  unfairly  ?  " 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  sir,  I  cannot  say,  really — I  don't 
think" 

"  Ah  poor  fellow,  you  dare  not  tell  me  what  you 
think !  You  eat  their  bread,  and  are  bound  to  them. 
It  is  not  so  with  me.  Let  them  be  assured  the  matter 
shall  not  rest  here." 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong — I  do  indeed,  sir,"  said  the 
gyp.  "  Mr  Squareroot  is  a  gentleman  of  strict  inte- 
grity, and,  I  believe,  would  rather  lose  his  hand  than 
let  it  do  a  dirty  action.  It  is  Mr  Smithson's  constitu- 
tion, sir,  and  nothing  else,  believe  me." 

I  answered  my  worthy  friend  with  a  sneer,  and  truly 
happy  was  I  to  find,  an  hour  afterwards,  that  I  did 
not  stand  alone  in  the  suspicions  that  I  entertained 
of  the  justice  and  honour  of  the  college  functionary. 

Simmonds's  remark  respecting  Smithson  was  cer- 
tainly a  correct  one.  He  was  not  a  favourite  in  the 
college ;  but  let  me  do  him  the  justice  to  state  why. 

His  appearance,  as  I  have  before  hinted,  was  not 
of  the  taking  character.     It  partook  largely  of  that 


112  CALEB  STUKELY. 

known  to  university  men  by  the  name  of  snobbish.  He 
was  a  short,  bull-headed  person,  with  coarse  features 
and  a  shaggy  head  of  hair.  Ornament  was  foreign 
to  his  person  and  dress.  The  latter,  though  clean 
generally,  was  always  mean  and  hiferior-looking.  So 
much  for  himself.  His  father  was,  I  was  about  to 
say,  a  poor  man — necessitous  is  the  better  term.  He 
was  a  gentleman  by  birth,  by  education,  and  by  pro- 
fession. In  his  profession  he  was  distinguished  by 
first-rate  ability,  untiring  perseverance,  and  remarkable 
humility.  I  am  ashamed  to  add  that  the  revenue 
of  this  man,  the  yearly  reward  of  all  his  honourable 
toil — his  icages — amounted  not  quite  to  eighty  pounds 
per  annum.  With  this  miserable  pittance  he  had 
contrived,  for  some  years,  to  feed  and  clothe  his  wife, 
two  children,  and  himself.  Having  been  fortunate 
enough  to  get  his  son  placed  on  the  foundation  of  our 
college  as  a  sizar,  he  managed  further,  by  some  pecuhar 
process,  to  squeeze  out  a  sum  sufficient  to  meet  the 
charges  of  a  private  tutor;  to  accomplish  this,  however, 
I  have  reason  to  know  that  father,  mother,  and  sister, 
were  making  sacrifices  at  home  really  beyond  behef, 
but  with  a  loving  cheerfulness  that  spoke  almost  too 
well  for  selfish,  erring,  human  nature.  When  I  say 
that  the  son,  with  a  pious  resolution,  strove  by  every 
exertion,  and  by  all  means,  to  carry  out  the  goodly 
work  begun  at  home,  separated  himself  from  all  other 
men,  shut  himself  up  in  his  own  ill-furnished  room, 
joined  in  no  pleasures,  partook  of  no  friendships,  and 


aUiEB  STUKELT.  113 

devoted  his  days  to  the  building  up  of  the  fortunes  of 
himself  and  family,  I  need  add  no  more  to  convince 
the  reader  that  he  was  heartily  hated,  and  unreservedly 
cut,  by  every  man  of  spirit  and  true  gentleman  in  the 
college. 

I  must  acknowledge,  notwithstanding  the  lofty  air 
and  tone  I  had  assumed,  I  was  in  noway  easy  nor 
satisfied  of  the  justice  of  my  proceeding  against  Smith- 
son.  The  sad  defalcation  on  the  fifth  day  haunted 
me  like  a  living  reproach,  and  pricked  me  as  often  as 
I  accused  the  poor  curate's  son  and  his  uncle  of  collu- 
sion. Still  I  was  not  so  ashamed  of  this  ungenerous 
treatment  of  him,  as  I  was  of  my  own  defeat,  and  the 
thoughts  of  other  men  respecting  me.  Weak  and 
wicked  as  I  was,  to  shield  myself  from  these,  I  under- 
took to  foster  the  dislike  which  I  now  learned  was 
entertained  for  Smithson,  and  to  suggest  one  fresh 
ground  of  offence  against  him.  Unhappily  for  me,  the 
men  were  but  too  ready  to  listen  to  my  complaint. 

It  is  a  dangerous  trick,  that  of  digging  pits  for  other 
folks.     Avoid  it,  reader — always. 

In  truth,  the  cordial  sympathy  that  so  suddenly 
burst  upon  me  from  my  fellow-students,  was  at  once  a 
panacea  to  my  broken  spirits.  Instead  of  averted 
looks,  or  signs  of  triumph  and  ridicule,  their  recogni- 
tions were  friendly  and  encouraging.  As  to  the  favour 
which  had  been  affbrded  Smithson,  they  were,  to  a 
man,  quite  satisfied  of  that — and  their  indignation  at 
the  fact  by  far  surpassed  my  own.     Their  advice  to 

VOL.  I.  K 


114  CALEB  STUKELY. 

take  immediate  steps  for  the  exposure  of  the  "  precious 
system,"  was  offered  in  all  the  warmth  of  a  brotherly 
regard,  and  urged  with  one  consent.  There  was  one 
individual  especially  indignant  and  violent  in  his 
counsel.  A  tall,  fair-haired,  dissipated  youth,  who 
had  not  opened  any  but  his  betting-book  since  his 
appearance  in  Cambridge,  and  who,  with  an  income 
of  three  hundred  pounds  a-year,  lived  at  the  rate  of  as 
many  thousands;  but  this  I  knew  not  at  the  time. 
As  I  have  said,  Mr  Easy  man,  more  than  all  the  rest, 
was  affected  with  choler  at  my  disappointment. 

"  Of  course,"  said  he,  "  I  knew  how  it  would  be. 
Why  didn't  /  go  in  for  the  scholarship  ?  Why  do  I 
take  life  easy  ?  What's  the  use  of  reading,  when 
every  thing  is  settled  beforehand  ?  Upon  my  honour," 
(Mr  Easyman  never  went  higher  than  this,)  "  I  believe 
the  best  men  do  nothing  at  all  at  college.  They  are 
wise,  and  see  what's  what  with  half  an  eye." 

The  conversation,  of  which  the  above  elegant  ex- 
tract formed  a  part,  was  held  in  my  own  room,  about 
an  hour  after  I  had  been  made  acquainted  in  the  hall 
with  the  success  of  Mr  Smithson.  A  body  of  men  had 
flocked  thither  to  offer  me  their  condolence,  and  to 
assure  me  of  their  readiness  and  desire  to  make  my 
grievance  unconditionally  their  own.  Many  speeches 
were  made  on  the  subject;  and,  as  every  one  had  some- 
thing important  and  original  to  advance,  it  may  easily 
be  conceived  that  our  meeting  became  at  intervals 
exceedingly  noisy,  and  the  difficulty  of  drawing  atten- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  115 

tion  on  the  part  of  individuals  inconveniently  great. 
At  one  moment,  my  friends  would  deem  it  expedient 
to  fall  simultaneously  into  a  violent  rage,  and  to  dis- 
charge themselves  of  their  anger  at  one  and  the  same 
moment;  then  Bedlam  itself  seemed  loosed  into  the 
room.  Afterwards  there  would  be  a  corresponding 
silence ;  every  one  stopped  for  breath  at  once,  and 
then  every  one  bellowed  out  again.  These  continued 
alternations  of  excessive  violence  and  extreme  repose 
could  not  but  be  very  distressing  to  the  lodger  overhead. 
They  proved  so.  The  rooms  immediately  above  my 
own  were  occupied  by  Mr  Squareroot  himself;  and  at 
this  very  time  he  was  busy,  in  his  capacity  of  mode- 
rator, in  the  concoction  of  divers  mathematical  puzzles, 
with  which  to  tickle  the  brains  of  his  friends  at  the 
ensuing  bachelors'  examination.  Annoyed  at  length 
beyond  his  power  of  endurance,  he  sent  his  servant  to 
us  with  a  particular  request,  that  we  should  be  more 
temperate  in  the  sound  at  least  of  our  remarks  ;  by 
which  very  natural  and  certainly  justifiable  proceeding, 
the  tutor  increased  to  its  height  the  bitter  feeling 
which  was  already  engendered  against  him.  Its  effect, 
however,  was  decisive,  for  perfect  silence  ensued,  and 
it  was  left  for  Mr  Easyman,  in  these  memorable  words, 
to  break  it. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said  in  an  under  tone,  and  look- 
ing around  him,  "  the  right  of  discussion  is  contested 
with  us.  This  only  was  wanting.  But  we  will  give 
the  enemy  no  advantage.     Let  us  separate  now,  but 


110  CALEB  STUKELY. 

let  me  see  you  all  in  my  rooms  this  afternoon  to  wine. 
No  tutors  will  interrupt  us  there.  Stukely,  I  shall 
expect  you." 

Which  invitation  being  given  and  accepted,  and  a 
few  remarks  made  afterwards  in  a  subdued  and  gentle 
voice,  the  meeting  for  the  present  separated. 

Although  I  had  always  lived  on  the  most  friendly 
terms  with  all  the  members  of  our  college,  I  had  not 
been,  until  now,  in  close,  intimate  association  with  any 
of  them.  I  had  heard  of  their  parties  and  whist- 
meetings  ;  but,  wholly  ~fcaken  up  with  the  serious  em- 
ployments of  the  past  year,  I  had  no  time  for  personal 
enjoyments.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  the  accounts  I 
had  received  of  the  doings  at  these  convivial  assemblies 
had  rather  repelled  me  than  attracted  me  towards 
them.  Still  I  had  been  cautious  to  say  nothing  against 
them.  On  the  contrary,  I  had  publicly  always  looked 
upon  those  who  participated  in  them  with  great  com- 
placency, and  more  than  once  had  listened  to  a 
rehearsal  of  their  orgies  with  a  well-feigned  delight. 
I  have  to  confess  that  I  found  it  my  interest  to  do  this, 
at  the  very  time  that  a  sovereign  contempt  for  men 
thus  yielding  themselves  to  the  miserable  enjoyment 
of  the  present,  utterly  regardless  of  the  future,  was 
paramount  in  my  mind ;  but  I  speak  of  a  time  when  I 
had  already  assumed  the  airs  of  a  patron  and  a  con- 
queror. It  was  very  different  now.  My  defeat  could 
not  elevate  my  companions,  but  it  had  brought  me 
very  low.     Noio  I  could  even  feel  very  grateful  for  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  117 

invitation  of  Mr  Easyman,  and  wonder  how  it  was  I 
had  so  long  neglected  the  many  kind  and  friendly  in- 
vitations that  had  been  offered  me.  Still  more,  I  could 
conceive  extreme  indignation  against  those  who  spoke 
disparagingly  and  harshly  of  men  whose  greatest  fault 
appeared  but  an  excess  of  social  love,  an  overflowing 
of  human  sensibilities. 

The  hour  of  Mr  Easyman's  wine-party  arrived.  I 
was  about  to  set  out  for  his  rooms.  I  did  not  feel 
comfortable.  I  could  not  say  that  I  was  on  really  good 
terms  with  any  one,  least  of  all  with  myself.  What 
could  render  me  so  irritable  and  vexed  ?  No  doubt 
the  shameful  conduct  of  Mr  Squareroot — the  impu.- 
dent  trickery  of  him  and  his  ill-favoured  relative.  Old 
Simmonds,  who  was  in  my  bedroom  during  the  visit 
of  my  friends  in  the  morning,  as  I  now  walked  across 
the  room  to  depart,  asked  me,  as  I  thought,  somewhat 
sharply,  if  I  really  intended  to  go. 

"  Go  ! "  I  answered  hastily — "  intend  to  go  !  What 
do  you  mean,  old  man  ?  Most  certainly  I  intend  to 
go.  Didn't  you  hear  this  morning  ?  This  barefaced 
piece  of  business  isn't  to  rest  here.  Every  one  is  satis- 
fied of  their  conduct.  Others  have  seen  through  it, 
and  have  known  it  all  along." 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  say,  sir,"  said  the  gyp,  very 
calmly,  "  what  is  the  opinion,  or  what  are  the  motives 
of  those  gentlemen.  You  are  not  one  of  them — you 
have  never  been  one  of  them — and  you  must  not  be- 
come one.     If  you  do,  God  help  you  ! " 


118  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  !  It  is  a  pretty  thing  for  you  to 
dictate  to  me  in  this  way.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Sim- 
monds,  I  have  permitted  you  to  go  on  after  this 
fashion  too  long.  I  ought  to  have  checked  you  at 
once.  A  younger  man  shouldn't  have  presumed  so  far, 
I  can  assure  you." 

"  Mr  Stukely,"  said  the  old  man,  "  you  frighten  me. 
I  know  very  well  where  all  this  ends.  I  have  not  been 
in  college  sixty  years  for  nothing." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  insult  me  ?  I  shall  not  submit 
to  your  impertinence.  I  suppose  you  think  you  may 
just  say  and  do  what  you  please  now — but  you'll  find 
your  mistake." 

"  Why  can't  you,"  continued  the  old  man,  taking  no 
notice  of  my  violence,  ^' why  can't  you  sit  down  to-night 
quietly  and  comfortably,  as  you  have  done  always  ? 
You  never  wanted  to  go  out  before  this  evening,  and 
you  have  been  happy  enough  too." 

"  Sit  down !  No,  I'll  not  sit  down,  until  I  "have 
made  my  injury  known  to  the  whole  world." 

"  Oh,  dear  me  ! "  said  the  imperturbable  gyp,  "  how 
can  you  talk  such  nonsense  ?  Why  will  you  deceive 
youself?  Who  will  believe  you?  Do  you  think  that 
Mr  Squareroot's  character  is  not  too  well  known  ? 
He  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  to  be  made  chancellor 
to-morrow.  There's  a  dear  gentleman,  give  me  your 
hat,  and  don't  tease  yourself  any  more  about  the 
matter.  There  now,  the  kettle's  boiling — do  sit  down 
and  let  me  make  your  tea." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  119 

"  No  Siminonds,  this  will  not  do,  I  have  promised 
my  friends,  and  they  will  see  me  redressed." 

"  They  will  see  you  laughed  at,  sir.  Every  one 
will  laugh  at  you,  if  you  run  about  making  this  com- 
plaint." 

The  gyp  had  reached  a  vulnerable  part.  I  shrunk 
from  ridicule  as  the  horned  snail  does  from  the  finger 
touch.  An  indistinct  apprehension  of  his  meaning 
disarmed  me  in  an  instant.  The  colour  mounted  to 
my  cheek.  I  stood  irresolute.  Simmonds  profited  by 
the  opportunity,  and  slipped  my  hat  from  my  hands. 

"  I'll  write  home  to  my  father,"  I  said  at  length, 
sighing  in  great  perplexity.  "  Simmonds,  fetch  me 
some  letter-paper." 

"  Have  you  none  here,  sir?"  enquired  the  poor 
fellow,  looking  nervously  into  my  portfolio,  and  afraid 
to  leave  me. 

"  None.     I  used  the  last  yesterday." 

"  Very  well  then,"  he  replied,  evidently  much  an- 
noyed, "  I  suppose  I  must  get  some ; "  and  he  walked 
off — very  quickly  for  him — taking  care  to  shut  the 
door  carefully  after  him. 

The  hour  of  my  appointment  was  already  past.  I 
had  resolved.  Simmonds  after  all  might  be  right.  I 
would  not  go.  I  would  that  evening  write  to  my 
father,  explain  the  circumstances  to  him,  and  beg  him 
at  once  to  withdraw  me  from  the  university,  with  which 
I  was  already  very  much  disgusted.  It  was  a  good 
resolution.     The  shadow  of  Mr  Easyman  shrouded 


120  CALEB  STUKELY. 

me  as  I  made  it.  I  looked  up,  and  lo  !  that  gentleman 
was  smiling  at  the  window. 

"  Hallo  I "  said  he.  "  Bricked  up  ?  Upon  my 
honour,  that's  very  clever.  Open  sesame,  if  you 
please.  Fine  animal  that  of  yours,"  continued  he, 
entering  my  room.  "  Rather  groggy  just  now.  First- 
rate  in  his  time — almost  ready  for  the  knacker.  I 
wonder  what  he  is  saying  now  to  old  Squareroot." 

"  Whom  do  you  refer  to  ?  " 

"  Your  Caliban  Simmonds." 

"  Is  he  with  Squareroot  now  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  saw  him  as  I  crossed  the  court.  Oh  ! 
Caliban  is  a  sweet  boy  for  his  age.  But  they  are  all 
in  one  game ;  and  I  will  say  this  for  the  whole  tribe, 
they  do  play  most  cleverly  into  one  another's  hands." 

"  Are  they  really  so  bad  ?  " 

"  Worse  than  housebreakers.  Never  mind.  Come 
along,  we  are  all  waiting  for  you." 

"  Well,  do  you  know,  I  was  thinking,  Easyman" 

"  Oh  !  don't  think — there's  a  good  fellow !  There's 
really  no  time  for  it  to-day.  You  shall  think  to-mor- 
row, and  act  now.  You  know  you  have  given  your 
word  to  the  men,"  (and  the  hat  that  Simmonds  had  a 
moment  before  enticed  from  my  hand,  the  wily  Easy- 
man  insidiously  restored  to  it.)  "  It  is  your  own 
party,  and  they  are  all  eager  to  give  you  the  meeting. 
They  will  never  leave  you,  my  boy,  until  you  are 
righted.  They  arc  the  real  sort,  depend  upon  it — 
true  blood  to  the  back-bone." 


CALEB  STUKEI/Y.  121 


I  really  do  not  feel  inclined — I  cannot  go 


"Why,  my  dear  fellow,  consider — you  wouldn't 
have  the  men  laugh  at  you  ?  " 

I  plunged  my  head  into  the  hat,  and  rushed  out  of 
the  room  with  him. 

"  But  is  it  true,"  I  asked,  when  we  reached  his  door, 
*'  that  you  saw  Simmonds  a  minute  or  two  ago  with 
the  tutor  ?  " 

"  As  true  as  I  see  you  now — upon  my  honour." 

"Then,  Easyman,  that  old  man  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  a  grey-headed  devil." 

Mr  Easyman  had,  without  exception,  the  very  best 
rooms  in  the  college.  Why  should  they  not  be  ?  they 
were  the  most  expensive.  The  manner  in  which  they 
were  fitted  up  did  credit  to  his  taste.  Mr  Easyman 
was  not  an  ordinary  man.  He  prided  himself  upon 
his  knowledge  of  the  fitness  of  things.  A  stranger 
would  discover  his  peculiar  talent  at  a  glance.  He 
was  a  walking  illustration  of  himself — of  his  own 
mind.  His  dress,  his  air,  his  gait,  his  very  hand,  were 
so  many  indices  to  his  inner  self.  There  was  a  union, 
a  harmony,  certain  corresponding  effects,  in  all  of 
them.  They  all  bore  testimony  to  the  innate  sense 
of  order  and  propriety.  Walk  into  his  abode — you 
were  struck  with  the  costliness  and  elegance  of  the 
furniture,  but  not  so  much  with  these  as  with  the 
remarkable  adaptation  and  blending  of  the  several 
pieces.  Every  one  was  perfect;  and,  with  reference 
to  the  others,  exactly  in  that  particular  spot  which  it 

VOL.  L  L 


122  CALEB  STUKELT. 

would  have  selected  for  itself,  had  it  been  endued  with 
the  powers  of  sense  and  motion.  Shall  I  describe  his 
bedroom  ?  My  pen  halts.  It  is  some  years  since,  for 
the  first  time,  I  read  the  poem  of  Lalla  Rookh,  (who 
shall  read  it  a  second  time,  and  not  grow  faint  from 
the  excessive  sweetness?)  and  the  descriptions  of 
joyous  indolence  in  that  romance,  brought  to  my 
recollection  the  sublime  dormitory  of  Mr  Eas}Tnan. 
It  was  emphatically  eastern — and  admirably  suited 
to  the  ambitious  and  extravagant  notions  of  a  man, 
living,  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  with  a  lofty  con- 
tempt of  his  own  poor  means,  in  a  most  eastern  and 
inconsiderate  manner. 

Mr  Easyman  opened  the  door,  and  introduced  me 
to  his  company.  There  were  about  fifteen  of  them. 
They  rose,  their  glasses  in  their  hands — for  the  liba- 
tions had  already  commenced — and,  with  one  cheering 
halloo,  they  welcomed  me  amongst  them.  Violent 
applause  is  dangerous  to  the  object  of  it  —  always. 
If  the  object  is  a  fool,  it  is  ruinous  indeed.  I  smiled 
radiantly  upon  the  assembly,  and  in  a  moment  was 
repaid  for  much  of  my  past  anxiety  and  wretchedness. 
I  felt,  as  I  sat  down  amongst  so  many  ardent  and 
devoted  spirits,  that  if  the  wicked  Simmonds  might 
observe  my  triumph,  I  could  forgive  even  him  his  foul 
iniquity.  The  room  was  a  spacious  one,  and  the  table 
placed  in  the  centre  of  it,  round  which  the  guests 
were  seated,  was  well  supplied  with  fruits,  confections, 
and  the  choicest  wines.    The  chairs  were  all  occupied 


C.\XEB  STUKELY.  123 

but  one.  This  was  the  honoured  seat,  reserved  for 
me.  Amongst  the  company  I  noticed  my  friend  the 
paulo-post-futurum  Lord  Mayor,  and  the  thin  drinking 
gentleman.  There  was  another  individual  present, 
by  no  means  to  be  disregarded  in  this  relation.  He 
was  the  connexion  of  a  celebrated  tragedian  of  the 
day,  remarkable  for  his  frequent  quotation  of  Shak- 
speare,  and  for  the  pertinacity  with  which  he  insisted 
upon  obliging  his  friends,  during  vacation  time,  with 
orders  for  the  play.  His  name  was  Deboos.  He 
accosted  me,  as  I  entered,  with  the  following  words : — 

"  Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honour  roof 'd, 
Were  the  graced  person  of  our  Stukely  present. 
Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness 
Than  pity  for  mischance." 

"  That's  the  fifth  time  you  have  said  that,  Boosey," 
(so  he  was  called  by  his  familiars;)  "now,  don't  say 
it  any  more."  Thus  spoke  Mr  Laurel,  the  lord, mayor. 
"  Stukely,"  he  added,  addressing  me  in  a  low  tone, 
"  I  am  happy  to  see  you — sit  down."  His  chair  was 
next  to  mine.  "  I  have  not  seen  you  since  our  sell 
We  have  been  floored  cleanly.  We  couldn't  help  it 
— that's  a  great  consolation.  I  saw  the  thing  at  once, 
and  cried  done  in  time.     You  died  game." 

But  Mr  Laurel  was  interrupted ;  for  the  decanters 
on  the  table  had  already  performed  a  rapid  gyration, 
and  the  glasses  became  musical,  from  the  tinkling 
sounds  that  were  drawn  from  them.  Mr  Easyman 
had  resumed  his  seat,  which  was  distinguished  from 


124  CALEB  STUKELT. 

the  rest  by  being  raised  slightly  above  them,  and  he 
now  struck  the  table  with  great  rapidity  and  vehe- 
mence. Silence  being  obtained,  he  rose : — "  Gentle- 
men," he  commenced,  "  I  am  no  speaker ;  but  you 
know  my  plan.  Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time. 
It  was  my  favourite  copy  at  school.  I  act  upon  the 
maxim  now — never  postpone  till  to-morrow  what  you 
can  do  to-day.  To  business.  Are  your  glasses  charged, 
my  boys  ?  Stukely,  you  stop  the  bottle.  Fill  your 
glass,  and  pass  it  on." 

I  obeyed,  attentive  fd  my  host's  address,  and  watch- 
ing the  point  of  convergence  to  which  his  words  were 
tending. 

"His  Majesty — God  bless  him!"  exclaimed  Mr 
Easyman  after  a  proper  pause,  and  with  all  the  gravity 
so  solemn  a  benediction  demanded. 

"  His  Majesty  —  God  bless  him  ! "  shouted  with 
more  fervour,  and  less  ceremony,  a  thousand  voices 
condensed  into  fifteen.  As  the  thunder  abated,  the 
silver  tones  of  Mr  Deboos  w^ere  caught  lingering  at 
the  close  with — 

'-  Not  all  the  waters  of  the  rough  rude  sea 
Can  wash  the  balm  from  an  anointed  king." 

There  succeeded  to  this  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  ani- 
mated conversation,  characterised,  as  indeed  many  of 
the  subsequent  discussions  of  the  evening  were,  not 
so  much  by  abstruseness  or  learned  acumen,  as  by  the 
happy  facility  which  every  one  displayed  in  leaping 


CALEB  STUKELT.  125 

from  one  subject  to  another  in  an  inconceivably  short 
space  of  time.     Not  that  deep  and  abstract  matters 
were  entirely  neglected.     Far  from  it ;  but  they  were 
treated  with  so  lively  and  novel  a  disposition,  that 
they  must  have  astonished  a  sober-minded  individual 
who  had  previously  taken  pains  to  think  seriously  about 
them,  or  to  make  his  head  giddy  with  their  pleasing 
perplexities.       Opinions   were   offered,    and   difficult 
points  mooted  and  settled,  with  a  freedom  and  grace 
that  were  truly  refreshing.     Great,   indeed,  are  the 
advantages  of  a  university  education !     It   was   my 
nature  to  be  shy  and  silent  in  mixed  companies ;  but 
by  the  very  force  of  example,  I  became  by  degrees  an 
impassioned  and  eloquent  speaker.     It  was  very  grati- 
fying, indeed,  to  my  vanity  to  perceive  that  every  word 
I  uttered,  every  notion  I  ventured  to  submit — and  silly 
enough  were  many — ^^was  listened  to  with  fixed  atten- 
tion, and  acknowledged  by  universal  approbation.     It 
is  worthy  of  remark,  that,  before  I  had  spent  an  hour 
with  my  friends,  every  one  of  them,  without  exception, 
after  having  done  honour  to  the  usual  toasts,  did  me  the 
kindness  to  drink  my  health,  and  to  wish  me  prospe- 
rity.    Most  exhilarated  did  I  become — most  grateful 
for  their  attentive  and  affectionate  regard.     A  warm 
glow  sprung  up  at  my  heart,  and  unconsciously  a  tear 
or  two  trickled  down  my  cheeks,  as  though  with  very 
superfluity  of  happiness.     And  then  the  grand  business 
of  Smithson  was  discussed,  and,  I  must  confess  it, 
almost  too  soon  disposed  of.     But  the  subject  was  an 


1 26  CALEB  STUKELY. 

unpleasant  one,  and  my  supporters  were  glad  to  with- 
draw themselves  from  the  pressure  of  it.  I  cannot 
but  add,  that,  as  time  wore  on,  even  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  esteem  the  very  occasion  of  our  meeting  as 
forming  the  chief  delight  of  it.  I  had  rather  a  peculiar 
pleasure  from  the  very  act  of  forcing  all  thoughts  of 
Smithson  from  my  mind,  and  giving  myself  up  uncon- 
ditionally to  the  excited  and  animated  scene  around 
me.  The  never-ending,  still-beginning  process  of  the 
wine-bottle,  did  not  slacken  with  the  approach  of  twi- 
light. The  sun  went  "down  in  surpassing  splendour. 
I  looked  out  upon  him  as  his  eye  of  fire  closed  upon 
the  world.  "  Never  before,"  thought  I,  "has  he  left 
such  jocund  spirits  on  the  earth  behind  him."  The 
dusky  middle  light  of  eve — the  soft  crepuscule — deli- 
cious as  it  is  in  little  country  parlours,  through  which, 
laden  with  pensive  thought  and  breathless  melody,  it 
steals  with  a  rehgious  quiet — calls  up  no  gladly  feel- 
ing in  the  heart  of  him  who  plies  his  calling  at  the 
shrine  of  Bacchus.  Comes  it  with  reproach  to  him,  or 
does  it,  from  the  vasty  depths,  invoke  images  of  bygone 
innocence  and  peace  ?  Is  it  too  touching  and  too  soft, 
or  does  the  one  short  hour  of  absent  glare  make  legible 
the  naked  characters  of  shame  ?  Mr  EasjTnan  could 
not  probably  explain  his  motive,  but  the  fact  is  certain. 
No  sooner  had  the  sun  departed,  and  left  the  denizens 
of  earth  to  stretch  their  limbs,  and  breathe  cool  air 
again,  than  did  our  worthy  host  desire  the  attendant 
gyp  to  close  the  shutters  and  "  bring  in  the  wax," 


CALEB  STUKELY.  127 

And  soon  hilarity  became  intense,  and  the  several 
warm  hearts  then  melted  into  one.  And  then  the 
wine,  that  had  performed  its  part  so  well,  took  leave, 
and  came  no  more ;  but,  in  its  stead,  a  thrilling  mix- 
ture, mysterious  in  its  power  and  in  the  union  of  its 
elements,  whose  luscious  drops  searched  blood,  and 
bone,  and  marrow,  and  lit  up  with  fire  the  very  seat  of 
all  sensation.  I  tasted,  and  electric  pleasure  started 
through  my  frame,  demanding  still  another  and  an- 
other taste,  until  at  length  I  revelled  unresisting  in 
delicious  draughts.  Nor  was  the  revelling  confined  to 
me.  The  bright  nectar  found  wilhng  entrance  at  every 
lip,  and  many  bowls  gave  evidence  of  untiring  flavour 
and  enduring  virtue.  Twilight  gave  place  to  night — 
bowl  had  succeeded  bowl  with  terrible  dispatch.  Mr 
Easyman  grew  flushed.  He  rose  to  speak  the  praise 
of  punch,  and,  in  his  capacity  of  toastmaster,  he  said 
laconically,  and  in  Greek  of  course — 

"  To  TiaCkavr 

"  Ka/  TO  a^mrov"  screamed  out  the  company. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  enquired  the  host 

"  Do  we  not  ?  "  was  the  interrogative  reply. 

"  Woodlouse  ! — pipes,"  cried  the  giver  of  the  feast 
to  his  gyp,  Mr  WoodAouse.     "  Pipes  and  tobacco." 

The  a^idrov  (pipes  and  tobacco)  was  brought ;  and 
a  short  silence  prevailed,  whilst  the  room  became 
dim  with  smoke,  and  the  candles  sickened  in  thick 
vapours. 

<*  Now,  lads,"  resumed  Mr  Easyman,  shutting  one 


128  CALEB  STUKELY. 

eye,  and  looking  knowingly  with  the  other  at  a  glass 
of  the  mixture  which  he  held  in  one  hand,  his  pipe 
falling  gracefully  from  the  other,  "  Let  me  give  you 
TO  xaXov  xccf  TO  a^/tfrop." 

A  tremendous  cheer,  and  a  stunning  knocking  upon 
the  table,  and  a  corresponding  kicking  under  it, 
marked  the  welcome  which  the  classic  toast  received 
from  all. 

"  Come,  my  vB(psX7iys^irng,*'  said  the  guest  on  my  left. 
This  was  the  great  Greek  scholar  of  the  company,  who 
was  allowed  by  every  one  present  to  be  the  first  classic 
of  his  year  ;  but,  by  some  unaccountable  mistake,  was 
dragged  out  afterwards  somewhere  behind  the  last. 
"  Come,  my  vi(piXrj"  said  he,  hitting  me  on  the  back 
^ith  a  violence  that  made  me,  in  the  condition  to  which 
I  was  brought,  exceedingly  nervous  and  uncomfortable, 
"  blow  and  be  happy,"  and  he  thrust  a  pipe  into  my 
hand. 

I  had  never  smoked  a  pipe  before.  I  was  unequal 
to  the  task,  but  still  more  to  that  of  sitting  unmoved 
amidst  a  host  of  cloud-gatherers,  the  sole  consumer  of 
a  suffocating  fog.  Partly  to  avoid  this  disagreeable 
alternative,  partly  to  lose  none  of  the  regard  that  I  had 
gained  up  to  this  period  of  the  festival,  and  partly  be- 
cause I  was  so  very  warm  and  reckless,  that  I  was 
ready  to  do  any  thing  in  the  shape  of  a  request,  I  took 
the  clay  without  a  syllable  of  reply,  and  proceeded, 
awkwardly  enough,  to  the  successive  steps  of  filling, 
stopping,  lighting,  and  imbibing.     And  oh,  what  ob- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  129 

fuscation  and  confusion  !  With  the  first  fumes  of  the 
tobacco,  my  brain  received  a  shock.  The  whole  scene 
became  immediately  a  moving  panorama.  The  com- 
pany, table,  chairs — every  thing  passed  rapidly  round 
me,  then  suddenly  stood  still,  and  left  me  sick  and 
tottering.  I  caught  at  the  table,  as  I  fondly  hoped, 
unperceived  ;  for,  deplorable  as  I  felt,  I  was  still  more 
than  ever  susceptible  of  shame.  The  sense  of  feeble- 
ness was  more  than  half  subdued  by  the  mental  exer- 
tion which  I  forced  to  my  aid.  I  seized  a  glass  of  the 
intoxicating  liquor ;  the  nausea  was  for  a  time  over- 
come, and  my  spirits  flashed  up  with  new  fire. 

Midnight  had  long  since  stolen  away,  leaving  the 
assembly  not  more  willing  for  separation  than  it  had 
been  six  hours  before.  I  heard  St  Mary's  clock  strike 
three,  and,  about  the  same  time,  remember  to  have 
seen  a  vision  of  my  classic  neighbour.  He  was  "  upon 
his  legs,"  as  far  as  it  is  competent  for  me  to  assert  this 
of  a  staggering  and  reeling  man,  whose  legs  obstinately 
disregarded  their  natural  duty,  and  left  the  trunk  to 
seek  support  elsewhere.  He  was  in  the  act  of  address- 
ing the  chair.  His  manner  was  oily  and  insinuating ; 
but  his  speech,  unconnected,  and  made  up  of  Greek, 
Latin,  and  drunken  English,  cruelly  betrayed  the 
lamentable  state  into  which  he  had  fallen.  "  Mr  Chair- 
man," he  hiccuped  out,  after  having  already  spoken 
for  some  time,  and  with  great  eagerness — "Mr  Chair- 
man, I  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to  say,  and  it's  no 
odds  to  nobody ;  two  negatives  don't  make  an  affirma- 


130  CALEB  STUKELY. 

tive — put  that  down.  The  ancients,"  and  he  made  a 
low  bow — "  I  always  make  a  kotou  to  the  ancients — 
that's  pious  ;  the  ancients  never  knew  what  they  were 
going  to  say ;  vide  Cicero — '  rum  bene  provisam,  verba 
baud  invita  sequentur.' " 

"  Rum  !  "  exclaimed  Mr  Deboos,  w  ith  a  contemp- 
tuous curve  of  the  lip ;  "  rem,  if  you  please." 

"  Order,  order  !  chair,  chair  ! "  proceeded  from  half 
a  dozen  husky  voices,  and  a  moment  afterwards  there 
issued,  as  it  might  be  from  my  very  feet,  a  long,  loud, 
irrelevant  groan.  I  looked  down,  and  beheld  clinging 
to  my  chair,  foully  sick,  pale  as  death,  my  right  hand 
neighbour,  Mr  Laurel.  Oh,  the  internal  commotion 
that  I  suffered  then  !  I  forced  my  eyes,  not  slowly, 
from  the  disgusting  object,  and  relied  upon  crushing 
the  rapidly-rising  physical  phenomena  by  a  tremendous 
concentration  of  all  my  attention  upon  the  speaker. 
But  the  speaker  had  already  finished.  The  interrup- 
tion of  Mr  Deboos  had  led  to  a  further  interruption  on 
the  part  of  the  other  gentlemen,  and  the  jovial  scene 
unexpectedly  became  one  of  alarming  tumult  and  dis- 
order. Unfortunately  for  the  general  peace,  Mr  Deboos 
obstinately  contended  for  the  emendation  which  he  had 
thought  proper  to  introduce  in  the  foregoing  Latinity, 
and  treated  the  judgment  of  the  chair,  who  decided  in 
favour  of  the  orator,  with  no  more  respect  than  he  had 
listened  in  the  first  instance  to  the  classic  himself. 
Unhappily,  too,  the  chair  himself  just  now  w^as  not  in 
circumstances  to  brook  opposition  in  respect  of  any 


CALEB  STUKELY.  131 

matter  whatever.  His  eye  had  become  bloodshot  and 
furious.  When  he  spoke,  he  raged  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  and  his  gesticulation  assumed  all  the  violent  in- 
coherence of  an  uncontrollable  madman.  He  was  very 
drunk  indeed ;  but  Mr  Deboos  would  talk,  and  would 
have  the  last  word. 

"  You  son  of  a  strolling  vagabond,"  screamed  out 
Easyman  at  last,  "  if  you  don't  be  quiet,  I'll  smash 
you,  so  help  me !  " 

And  at  the  same  time  he  seized  a  full  goblet  of 
punch,  and  held  it  threateningly  before  the  unlucky 
Shaksperian. 

"  Ah  ha,  hoy !  '*  retorted  the  latter  in  derision, 
"  say^st  thou  so  ?  Art  thou  there.  Truepenny  ?  Come 
on — you  hear  this  fellow  in  the  cellarage  ;^'  and 
then  added,  with  more  profound  contempt,  "  Drunk 
— speak,  parrot — squabble —  swagger — swear.'' 

At  the  close  of  which  apt  speech,  and  in  spite  of 
the  interference  of  his  friends,  who  endeavoured  to 
.save  him  from  what  they  clearly  saw  would  be  the 
finale  to  his  discourse,  he  received  on  his  broad  fore- 
head, and  from  the  powerful  hand  of  his  host,  the 
glass  and  its  contents,  which  sent  him  bleeding  and 
senseless  to  the  ground. 

The  men  rushed  to  the  help  of  poor  Deboos,  but 
Easyman  himself  did  not  move  from  his  place.  He 
filled  another  goblet  with  liquor — drank  off  its  con- 
tents at  a  draught — threw  the  glass  in  a  frenzy  on  the 
floor,  and,  whilst  it  flew  about  in  a  thousand  pieces. 


132  CALEB  STUKELY. 

swore,  with  a  fearful  oath,  that  he  would  in  like 
manner  break  the  bones  of  any  one  who  offered  the 
least  assistance  to  his  victim. 

Things  looked  very  black,  and  I  grew  alarmed ; 
but  I  kept  my  seat.  Two  or  three  men,  in  spite  of 
Easyman's  threat,  persisted  in  restoring  the  fallen 
Deboos,  or  in  an  attempt  to  restore  him,  for  he  seem- 
ed dead ;  the  rest  crowded  round  the  host  himself, 
seeking  by  various  and  opposite  means  to  pacify  him, 
and  to  fix  him  in  his  chair.  As  may  be  supposed,  the 
worrying  rendered  him  more  infuriate.  He  continued 
to  swear,  every  succeeding  oath  rising  more  awful 
than  the  last,  and  to  struggle  against  a  dozen  men 
with  the  strength  and  passion  of  a  giant.  Amongst 
the  choicest  of  Mr  Easyman's  many  valuable  posses- 
sions was  a  watch  of  exquisite  manufacture.  It  was  a 
repeater,  the  smallest  that  had  ever  been  seen.  It 
had  been  admired  by  every  one ;  and  the  owner,  in 
his  sober  moments,  valued  it  above  all  other  things. 
It  was  indeed  a  gem.  Its  price  would  have  furnished 
the  materials  of  happiness  to  many  a  starving  creature. 
This  precious  ornament  was  now  swinging  in  the  air, 
and  the  violent  efforts  of  so  many  friends  of  order 
threatened  its  speedy  destruction. 

"  The  watch,  the  watch  !  "  shrieked  a  dozen  voices, 
pulling  the  wearer  a  dozen  different  ways. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  roared  Easyman,  dashing 
every  individual  from  him.  <'  You  infernal  robbers, 
what  do  you  mean  ?  "  and  he  tore  the  miniature  clock 


CALEB  STUKELT.  133 

from  his  neck,  hurled  it  with  desperate  violence  to  the 
ground,  and  stamped  madly  and  repeatedly  upon  it, 
until  the  little  beauty  was  reduced  to  atoms. 

Passing  notice  has  already  been  taken  in  this  nar- 
rative of  the  thin  drinking  gentleman.  For  him  was 
reserved,  and  in  his  own  peculiar  fashion,  the  task  of 
subduing  the  fierce  disturber.  He  had  admitted  into 
his  small  frame  more  than  his  just  proportion  of  the 
liquid  fire,  but  unremitting  habit  had  fortified  his  little 
stomach,  and  made  the  drink  innocuous  as  water.  At 
the  height  of  the  affray  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
surveyed  Mr  Easyman  with  a  steady,  sober  look ;  he 
watched  a  favourable  opportunity,  seized  it,  and  then, 
without  a  syllable,  felled  him  like  a  bullock  to  the 
earth.  Had  I  not  been  a  witness  to  this  act,  cruel 
and  dastardly  as  it  was,  in  spite  of  Paley  I  could  not 
have  believed  it  possible.  I  looked  at  the  aggressor, 
with  what  I  intended  to  be  a  most  expressive  gaze  of 
angry  reprimand.  He  smiled  upon  me  with  contempt; 
and  turning  from  me  to  the  affrighted  guests,  unruffled 
and  in  a  gentle  voice,  he  bade  them  carry  their  quiet 
host  to  bed.  By  his  direction  four  of  the  party  lifted 
the  insensible  Easyman  from  the  ground,  and  conveyed 
him  offl  He  followed  in  silence ;  but  the  rest  of  the 
men,  excepting  always  those  excluded  by  physical 
incapacity,  crowded  in  the  rear,  stamping  and  yelling . 
as  though  they  were  savages  dancing  the  war-dance, 
and  singing  the  death-song,  before  the  immolation  of 
a  sacrifice.     Believing,   I  know  not   w^hy,  that   the 


134  CALEB  STUKELY. 

murder  of  my  friend  was  the  next  business  to  be 
performed  by  the  thin  ruffian,  if  indeed  it  had  not 
been  already  perpetrated  by  him,  I  determined  to 
stand  up  (metaphorically  speaking)  in  the  defence  of 
the  poor  sufferer,  and  to  venture  my  life,  if  it  were 
necessary,  in  the  attempt  to  rescue  him.  Had  I 
fallen  down  dead  at  this  instant,  the  jury  would  have 
performed  their  duty  carelessly  if  they  had  not  written 
me  down  insane.  Whilst  I  had  a  clear  knowledge  of 
the  broad  facts,  I  am  sure  that  I  must  have  been  mad. 
My  brain  was  whirling,  and  I  was  losing  fast  all 
power  of  restraint.  I  reached  Easyman's  bedroom,  as 
the  body-bearers  were  placing  him  on  the  fine  quilt 
that  covered  his  luxurious  bed.  He  was  still  senseless 
— ^he  moaned  deeply  and  at  intervals,  with  a  convul- 
sive catching  in  the  throat  that  was  to  me  indicative 
of  fast-approaching  death.  But  the  small  fiend  was 
still  unmoved. 

"  Now,"  said  the  latter,  turning  back  his  wristbands, 
as  if  he  had  business  to  do,  and  it  was  time  to  set 
about  it ;  "  now,  Woodhouse  !  "  and  he  bawled  with 
a  voice  that  ought  to  have  awakened  Easyman. 
"  Woodhouse — mustard — and  a  quart  of  water  — 
warm."  Turning  to  the  bed,  he  loosened  the  cravat 
and  unbuttoned  the  shirt-collar  of  the  groaning  man. 
Then,  feeling  his  pulse  with  the  gravity  of  a  doctor, 
he  sat  quietly  down,  and  awaited  the  arrival  of 
the  gyp. 

Into  the  measure  of  the  water  he  threw  a  quantity 


CALEB  STUKELT.  135 

of  the  mustard,  and  stirred  it  well.  Desiring  the  men 
to  raise  Easyman  upon  his  back,  he  himself  applied 
his  fingers  to  the  drunken  man's  mouth,  opened  it,  as 
you  would  that  of  an  unwilling  horse,  and  then  poured 
down  the  liquid,  as  through  a  funnel,  in  sudden  doses, 
and  with  many  stops.  In  a  short  minute  or  two,  the 
disturbing  quality  of  the  medicine  was  beautifully 
apparent.  A  violent  natural  effort  on  the  part  of 
Easyman,  caused  the  company  to  retreat  with  great 
precipitation,  and  restored  the  sufferer  himself  to 
consciousness.  But  such  a  consciousness !  Oh,  it 
sickened  you  to  behold  it !  no  longer  raving  and 
roaring,  the  man  appeared  to  have  sunk  in  spirit 
below  the  level  of  a  poltroon.  He  whined  and  groan- 
ed alternately,  and  tears  that  might  have  had  their 
origin  in  fatuity — such  feebleness  of  mind,  so  perfect 
a  prostration  of  soul,  did  they  evince — rolled  piteously 
down  his  cheeks.  He  sobbed  with  fear,  and  shook 
from  head  to  foot,  and  besought  the  men  around  him, 
in  the  most  supplicating  terms,  not  to  leave  him  in 
his  present  miserable  plight.  Although  he  partially 
recognized  every  individual  who  came  near  and  spoke 
to  him,  I  could  not  believe  that  his  reason  was  wholly 
given  back.  Who  could  look  upon  him,  and  sub- 
scribe to  so  humiliating  a  conclusion  ?  He  could  not 
be  sober.  Drunkenness  had  but  assumed  another 
form.  The  fiend  was  still  making  merry  with  humanity, 
tricking  him  in  another  and  more  offensive  garb,  for 
his  own  sport  and  pastime. 


136  CALEB  STUKELT. 

"  Oh,  I  am  50  ill ! "  cried  the  wretched  sniveller. 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?  It's  a  shame  to  treat  a  man  so 
in  his  own  house.  Don't  leave  me — there's  a  dear 
fellow  !     I  am  sure  I  am  dying." 

"  Nonsense,"  replied  his  medical  attendant,  "  go 
to  sleep,  you  fool ! "  and  he  put  him  on  his  back  again, 
and  threw  the  clothes  in  a  heap  over  his  head. 

Easyman  made  no  resistance,  but  whined  like  a 
beaten  cur,  beneath  his  coverings.  Again  and  again 
he  assured  us  he  was  dying,  implored  some  one  to 
keep  him  company,  and  protested  against  the  cruelty 
and  ingratitude  of  "  treating  a  man  in  this  way  in  his 
own  rooms." 

In  the  midst  of  these  protestations,  by  the  desire 
of  our  leader,  we  departed,  and  returned  forthwith  to 
the  banqueting-room,  where,  in  truth,  the  scene  was 
not  more  pleasant  than  that  which  we  had  quitted. 
Five  men  were  lying  on  the  ground  in  different  stages 
of  intoxication.  The  eyes  of  one  protruded  from  the 
socket,  and  with  a  stupid  stare  were  fixed  upon  the 
ceiling.  Every  muscle  of  his  countenance  was  rigid, 
and  from  his  mouth  oozed  forth  a  sluggish  saliva,  that 
played  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth  in  frothy  bub- 
bles. "  The  last  internal  throes  of  death,"  thought  I, 
"  may  already  have  taken  place."  Another  man 
lay  at  the  very  feet  of  this  one.  He  was  fast  asleep, 
and  snored  with  a  constancy  and  vigour  that  no  noise 
could  conquer,  no  human  efforts  might  abate.  A 
third  man  sat  under  the  table,  clinging  to  its  legs,  and 


CALEB  STUKELY.  137 

smiling  sottishly.  He  was  talking  aloud — to  himself 
— to  characters  which  his  fancy  conjured  up — to  the 
inanimate  table — and  severally  to  its  four  inanimate 
legs.  Perfect  sensual  enjoyment  beamed  from  his 
watery  eyes.  Mr  Laurel,  son  of  the  civic  dignitary, 
so  to  speak,  wallowed  like  a  hog  in  his  own  mire,  and 
was,  indeed,  in  sore  distress.  His  cheeks  were  ashy 
pale,  his  lips  bloodless.  His  head  was  torn  with  pain, 
it  was  plunged  deep  into  the  palms  of  both  hands, 
and  he  breathed  hard,  and  swung  about  like  one 
struggling  to  cast  off  suffering.  He  had  made  a  sad 
mistake.  With  the  instinct  of  his  tribe,  he  had, 
during  the  whole  of  the  evening,  partaken  largely  and 
greedily  of  all  the  eatables.  These,  consisting  chiefly 
of  sweet  cakes  and  sugary  preparations,  had  kicked 
against  rather  than  socially  blended  with  the  port- 
wine  and  strong  tobacco  smoke,  which  not  frugally 
had  entered  his  weak  dyspeptic  stomach.  Hence  his 
present  miserable  state. 

Connected  with  the  room  in  which  we  were,  and 
opening  into  it,  was  an  antechamoer  of  very  moderate 
dimensions — a  narrow  slip,  devoted  to  the  reception 
of  coats,  and  cloaks,  and  suchlike  gear.  Into  this 
hole,  and  at  the  instance  of  the  little  iron  man,  the 
five  unfortunates  were  cast.  The  only  one  who  was 
aware  of  the  proceedings — the  Lord  Mayor  himself — 
submitted  to  the  operation  with  a  languid  resignation. 
The  four  insensibles  said  nothing.      We  saw  them 

VOL.  I.  M 


138  CALEB  STUKELT. 

"  safely  stowed,"  and — will  it  be  believed  ? — drew  once 

more  round  the  table  and  the  bowl. 

******** 

When  I  awoke  from  a  disturbed  uneasy  sleep,  the 
sun  was  overhead.  It  was  broad  noon.  An  intolerable 
throbbing  at  the  temples,  a  general  racking  headach,  a 
burning  throat,  a  fever-coated  tongue,  a  sickness  at 
the  heart,  prostrating,  annihilating.  Thus  reduced,  I 
rose  from  the  carpet  on  which  I  had  slept  in  the  horrid 
chamber  of  the  symposium,  and,  almost  overwhelmed 
by  the  fumes  that  hung:  around  me,  by  the  disgusting 
aspect  of  the  disordered  room,  loathing  myself,  and 
hating  all  the  world,  I  crawled  away,  and  slunk  into 
my  room. 

With  a  trembling  hand  and  with  the  soul  of  a  criminal, 
I  took  from  my  desk  a  letter  which  had  arrived  by  the 
morning's  post.  The  tears  dropped  slowly  and  heavily 
upon  the  handwriting  of  my  mother.  She  expected 
my  return  daily,  hourly.  She  was  most  anxious  to 
behold  me,  longing  to  clasp  me  again  in  her  arms,  and  to 
congratulate  me  on  the  happy  issue  of  my  hard  study 
and  noble  perseverance.  My  father  had  communicated 
to  her  the  strong  assurances  which  I  had  forwarded  of 
my  strength  and  easy  success,  and  she  reproached 
herself  lest  her  frequent  motherly  counsels  might  have 
interfered  in  any  way  with  the  perfect  fulfilment  of  my 
laudable  desires.  These  were  the  terms  of  her  epistle, 
which  had  fallen  fresh  and  unsuspecting  from  her  affec- 
tionate heart.     Oh,  could  she  but  have  seen  me  now, 


CALEB  STUKELt.  139 

how  would  that  heart  have  snapped  at  once  ! — what 
bitterness — what  anguish  might  it  have  been  spared  ! 

If  shame  had  not  made  me  irresolute,  the  dissipation 
of  the  past  night  would  have  rendered  me  incapable  of 
action.  It  stunned  me  to  think — to  move  was  a  sick- 
ening effort.  I  closed  the  door,  and  tottered  to  my 
bed.  Late  in  the  afternoon  I  awoke,  feverish  and 
unrefreshed,  quivering  in  body,  crushed  in  spirit,  the 
slave  of  a  triumphant  devil — cowering  beneath  a  dismal 
hypochondria. 

As  I  sat  silently  wretched  over  the  cold  fireplace,  my 
feet  upon  the  fender,  my  head  reposing  in  my  hands, 
Simmonds  unlocked  the  door,  and  stepped  into  the 
room. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  began  the  old  man ;  "  but 
the  master  wants  to  see  you.  I  hope  it  is  nothing 
serious ;  but  you  had  better  go." 

The  blood  mounted  to  my  cheek,  my  anger  was 
great,  my  hatred  of  the  old  man  more  bitter  than  ever ; 
but  I  beat  the  fender  with  my  feet,  and  said  nothing. 

"  Ah  !"  continued  the  gyp  deploringly,  "  I  knew  no 
good  would  come  of  it.  I  wish  the  devil  would  never 
let  another  drop  of  liquor  into  the  world  again.  My 
heart  alive !  how  pale  you  look.  Well,  sir,  it  can't 
be  helped  now.  You  must  make  the  best  of  it. 
But,  pray  go.  This  is  the  third  time  that  I  have  been 
sent  for  you." 

"  What  does  the  master  want  with  me  ?  "  I  enquired 
in  a  surly  tone  and  without  moving. 


140  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  and  I  am  afraid  to  guess." 

"  You  lie,  you  grey-haired  Iscariot  !"  I  replied, 
turning  upon  him  like  a  tiger.  "  You  know  enough ; 
too  much  for  me.  Go  about  your  business,  and  never 
let  me  hear  your  canting  voice  again.  Ah  !  you 
barefaced  Judas." 

The  only  answer  to  my  abuse  was  a  mild  and  piteous 
look,  a  long  and  deep-drawn  sigh. 

"  I  shall  not  go  to  the  master." 

"  Pray  do,  sir,"  said  Simmonds  earnestly ;  "  pray, 
pray  go.  If  any  thing  is  amiss,  the  master  is  not  very 
hard:  it's  a  word  or  two,  and  then  done  with.  He 
forgives  and  forgets  in  a  moment.  But  if  you  are 
obstinate,  you'll  force  him  to  be  severe,  and  I  don't 
know  what  will  be  the  consequence." 

Either  the  advice  was  not  lost  upon  me,  or  I  had 
not  courage  to  act  in  opposition  to  it.  I  did  go  to  the 
master.  Having  dismissed  Simmonds,  I  made  a  careful 
toilet,  assumed  a  cheerfulness,  and  hastened  to  the 
lodge. 

The  late  Bishop  of was  then  president  of  the 

college.  He  was  at  this  time  beloved  for  that  primi- 
tive simplicity  and  real  modesty  that  adorned  his  later 
life.  When  I  was  ushered  into  his  presence,  I  felt 
confounded  and  abashed.  The  mildness  of  his  eye — 
his  open  countenance — the  refreshing  purity  of  his 
whole  expression,  all  satisfactory  and  soothing  to  a 
virtuous  observer,  were  so  many  reproaches  to  a  spirit 
conscious  of  recent  transgression,  guilty,  and  ill  at 


CALEB  STUKELY.  1  41 

ease.  As  I  stood  before  the  worthy  master,  "  eaten 
by  shame,"  my  conscience  forced  me  to  contrast  my 
present  irksome  httleness  with  the  disgraceful  tyranny 
that  I  had  exercised  towards  Simmonds  a  few  minutes 
before,  and  I  was  grateful  that  the  gyp  was  not  an  eye- 
witness of  my  humiliation. 

The  master  was  writing  when  I  entered ;  he  wrote 
on  for  a  second  or  two,  and  then  he  raised  his  head 
and  looked  at  me.  "  Mr  Stukely,"  he  said,  putting 
his  pen  gently  upon  the  table,  "  I  am  glad  that  you 
have  come,  and  that  you  see  the  propriety  of  attempting 
no  concealment.  However  easily  you  might  escape 
from  me,  you  would  find  it  a  difficult  task  to  elude  the 
hands  of  justice." 

"Sir?" 

"  I  cannot  express  to  you  how  thoroughly  annoyed 
and  grieved  I  am  at  this  unhappy  event.  I  will 
do  you  the  justice  to  believe  that  you  bore  your 
unfortunate  victim  no  malice,  and  that  the  act 
which  you  committed  in  the  moment  of  intoxication 
was  not  premeditated  in  the  hour  of  reason  and 
sobriety." 

"Sir?" 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  wound  you  with  reproaches. 
Your  mind  is  surely  sufficiently  disturbed.  But  I 
must  tell  you  that  the  character  which  you  have 
hitherto  borne  in  the  college,  did  not  prepare  me  for 
this  interview.  Whilst  it  is  my  duty  to  enforce  your 
residence  in  Cambridge   until   Mr   Deboos   is   pro- 


142  CALEB  STUKELY. 

nounced  out  of  danger,  let  me,  as  a  friend,  entreat 
you  to  offer  up  your  grateful  acknowledgments  to 
that  Power  which  alone  has  saved  you  from  becoming 
a  murderer." 

"  Sir!"  I  shrieked  out,  jumping  back  a  step  or  two. 

"  Mr  Stukely,"  continued  the  master,  "  do  not 
aggravate  your  offence  by  this  light  conduct.  I  had 
hoped  to  find  you  sensible  of  your  situation,  and  am 
sorry  to  see  you  not  yet  free  from  the  influence  of 
liquor." 

Many  confused  ideas^  rushed  into  my  brain  at  the 
same  moment.  They  settled  into  three  distinct :  I  was 
indeed  drunk — or  dreaming — or  the  master  himself 
was  mad.  In  my  difficulty,  I  asked  faintly  what  was 
the  matter,  and  what  I  had  done. 

"  Rather  let  me  ask  you,  Mr  Stukely,  why  you 
persist  in  such  assurance  ?  Do  you  think  it  possible 
to  deceive  me  by  this  artful  line  of  conduct  ?  Pray, 
take  care — do  not  add  crime  to  crime." 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  if  I  had  been  sober  the 
night  before,  I  should  at  this  juncture  have  demanded 
boldly  a  full  explanation  from  my  accuser.  But  the 
drink  had  so  mashed  my  intellect,  had  put  my  frame 
into  such  a  novel  state  of  giddy  disturbance,  that  I 
more  than  questioned  my  right  to  do  any  thing  of  the 
kind.  I  therefore  remained  silent,  and,  as  well  as  I 
could,  called  to  my  recollection  all  that  had  happened, 
in  order  to  justify  the  master  in  the  course  he  was 
taking. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  143 

"  Where  did  you  spend  the  past  night,  Mr  Stukely  ?  " 
enquired  the  principal.  My  attention  was  called  to 
the  next  question  before  I  could  find  a  satisfactory 
answer  to  the  first. 

"  Was  Mr  Deboos  in  your  company  ?  " 

"  He  ims,  sir,"  I  replied,  sighing  at  the  general 
picture  of  the  scene  which  the  name  of  this  unlucky 
gentleman  vividly  called  up. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  good  master,  noticing  the  deep- 
drawn  breath,  "  this  is  more  becoming.  I  am  quite 
aware  of  it.  You  passed  the  night  with  him,  and  with 
other  gentlemen — is  it  not  so  ?  " 

I  nodded  my  head. 

"  Well,  then,  listen  to  what  I  say: — You  must 
remain  for  the  present  in  the  town.  I  will  place  no 
other  restraint  upon  you.  When  the  medical  atten- 
dant of  Mr  Deboos  assures  me  that  all  dangerous 
symptoms  have  disappeared,  you  will  receive  your 
exeat,  but  not  till  then.  I  hope  that  the  information 
which  I  have  received  touching  this  discreditable 
business,  is  not  in  every  particular  correct.  It  will  be 
comforting  to  believe  that  you  did  not  know  what  you 
were  doing  at  the  time ;  and  I  sincerely  trust  that  you 
now  regret,  very  deeply  regret,  the  injury  which  you 
have  inflicted  upon  this  unfortunate  young  man." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir" 

"  Mine  is  easily  granted,  but  you  must  seek  for- 
giveness elsewhere,  Mr  Stukely."  The  master  had 
scarcely  uttered  these  words,  when  his  servant  entered 


144  CALEB  STUKELY. 

and  announced  "  dinner."  The  footman  held  the  door 
open,  and  the  master  rose. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  Mr  Stukely — you  will 
not  fail  to  do  what  is  necessary.     Good-morning." 

And  the  venerable  principal  went  to  dinner. 

I  stood  stupidly  still,  then  walked  nervously  up  and 
down  the  room,  and  at  last  rushed  out  with  the  inten- 
tion of  following  the  master.  The  man  in  livery 
hastened  after  me. 

«  That  way,  sir,"  said  he  in  an  insinuating  voice, 
and  urging  me  gently. before  him — "  that  way,  sir;" 
and  I  went  on  till  I  reached  the  door,  which  he  quickly 
opened,  and  as  quickly  closed  upon  me. 

More  than  half-crazed,  and  almost  blind  with  irri- 
tation, I  sought  my  own  abode  again.  What  could  be 
the  meaning  of  it  all?  What  had  I  to  do  with 
Deboos?  What  had  happened  to  him  for  which  I 
was  answerable,  or  in  any  way  culpable?  He  had 
received  a  blow — a  fearful  one  it  is  true— from  Easy- 
man,  and  had  been  carried  to  his  room  bleeding  and 
insensible.  TJiat  I  well  remembered ;  but  what  was 
this  to  me  more  than  to  any  other  individual  specta- 
tor ?  Ha  !  was  it  conceivable  that  the  men,  one  and 
all,  had  falsely  charged  me  with  the  crime?  The 
thought  crossed  my  brain,  and  at  last  possessed  it  till 
I  became  frantic.  Deboos  was  dying  perhaps — who 
knew  but  he  was  dead  already  ? — and  they  had  all  con- 
spired to  bring  me  to  the  gallows  !  What  was  I  to  do 
if  they  persisted  in  such  an  accusation  ?    Who  would 


^.  CALEB  STUKELY.  14o 

believe  me  singly,  and  against  them  all?  What  did 
they  care  for  me,  so  long  as  they  might  preserve  them- 
selves ?  I  was  a  stranger  to  them — they  had  been 
long  united — might  they  not  consider  it  a  melancholy 
duty  to  sacrifice  me  for  the  general  safety  ?  "  Oh  ! 
would  to  Heaven  that  I  had  never  gone  to  that  accursed 
meeting  !  Oh  !  sweet  news  for  my  poor  mother, 
when  she  would  hear  of  me  to-morrow  as  the  drunk- 
ard and  the  assassin  !     What  was  to  become  of  me 

I  was  not  in  a  humour  to  receive  visitors,  and  one 
was  sitting  in  my  room  when  I  arrived.  His  back  was 
towards  me ;  but  he  rose  when  he  heard  my  footstep, 
and  looked  me  in  the  face.  Were  my  eyes  sporting 
with  my  reason  ?  Was  this  another  drunken  vision  ? 
No,  I  was  not  deceived.  My  coach  companion,  the 
man  who  had  played  the  first  trick  upon  me — James 
Temple  really  stood  before  me. 

Since  I  parted  with  him  on  the  eventful  evening  of 
my  advent,  I  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  from  him. 
This  was  not  surprising.  I  had  hitherto  passed  my 
days  chiefly  within  walls.  He  was  a  member  of  an- 
other college,  and  his  pleasures  and  pursuits  led  him 
into  haunts  with  which  I  was  unacquainted,  and  into 
the  society  of  men  with  whom  I  enjoyed  nothing  in 
common.  His  presence  staggered  me.  I  could  not 
guess  his  business.  My  experience  of  him  inclined 
me  to  think  it  no  good  one,  and  my  temper,  roused  to 

VOL.  I.  N 


146  CALEB  STUKELY. 

mischief,  sprung  at  the  opportunity  which  was  fairly 
afforded  me  to  bully  and  to  quarrel. 

"  How  dare  you,"  said  I,  pale,  I  am  sure,  with 
anger  and  annoyance,  "  how  dare  you  show  your  face 
here?" 

"  It  required  some  boldness,  I  allow,"  said  Temple ; 
"•  but  since  I  have  come,  you  will  hardly  turn  me  out, 
Stukely,  without  a  word  ?  " 

"  Didn't  you  write  that  letter?"  I  continued,  my 
flesh  tingling  with  a  cutting  sense  of  shame,  "  didn't 
you  write  that  letter,  I  say,  asking  me  to  breakfast 
with  the  vice-chancellor  ?  Answer  me — didn't  you  ?  " 
and  I  was  ready  to  burst  with  vexation  at  the  bare 
revival  of  the  fact. 

"  My  sole  object  in  coming  here  now,"  answered 
Temple,  evidently  affected  and  subdued  by  my  excite- 
ment, "  is  to  acknowledge  that  I  did  so." 

"  You  own  it  then,  do  you?"  I  replied,  puzzled, 
now  that  he  had  confessed  it,  as  to  what  I  should  say 
or  do  next. 

"  I  hope,  Stukely,  that  it  is  never  too  late  to  con- 
fess— never  too  late  to  be  sorry  for  doing  wrong.  I 
have  not  behaved  well  towards  you.  It  was  a  boyish 
trick — foolish  in  every  way.  I  regret  it  deeply.  I 
could  not  rest  until  I  had  asked  your  pardon,  and  you 
had  freely  forgiven  me.  Will  you  do  so  now  ?  In  a 
few  months  I  leave  Cambridge.  We  may  never  meet 
again.    Let  us  part  friends.     Will  you  take  my  hand  ?  " 


CALEB  STUKELF.  147 

"  It  was  villanous  conduct  though,"  I  repUed,  de- 
termined not  to  commit  myself  by  any  friendly  acknow- 
ledgments, before  I  had  fully  decided  upon  the  proper 
conduct  to  be  pursued. 

"  Say  no  more  about  it.  I  have  reproached  myself 
a  thousand  times,  and  have  suffered  sharper  pangs 
than  you  yourself  would  desire  to  inflict  upon  me. 
What  can  I  do  more  than  plead  guilty  to  the  charge, 
and  express  my  unfeigned  grief?  What  would  you 
have  me  do  ?  Tell  me,  and  judge  of  my  sorrow  and 
sincerity  by  the  eagerness  with  which  I  attend  to  your 
wishes." 

Instead  of  listening  to  him,  my  attention  was  called 
to  my  present  doubtful  position,  and  the  great  need  in 
which  I  stood  of  a  friend  and  adviser — matters  of  much 
more  importance  to  me,  than  the  friendship  or  even 
the  life  of  the  speaker.  By  the  time  he  had  finished, 
I  was  prepared,  without  any  view  to  him  or  his 
motives,  but  with  the  most  calculating  selfishness,  to 
extend  the  forgiveness  which  would  cost  me  nothing, 
mid  to  secure  his  services,  which  would  be  worth  a 
great  deal. 

Yet,  not  without  an  air  of  wounded  pride,  nor  with- 
out some  show  of  dignity  and  condescension,  did  I 
permit  the  cordial  grasp  so  eagerly  desired  by  Temple. 
Once  given,  however,  the  gates  of  separation  loosed, 
and  a  rapid  stream  of  friendly  interchangements  flowed. 
Soon  I  learned  his  college  history ;  and,  bound  by  the 
act  of  confidence,  soon  did  I  disburden  my  own  over- 


1 43  CALEB  STUKELT. 

loaded  soul.  I  communicated  every  thing.  With 
more  seriousness  than  I  had  expected  from  my  former 
volatile  companion,  he  listened  to  my  moving  tale,  and 
with  a  kindliness  of  feeling  that  spoke  for  the  truth  of 
his  contrition,  more  emphatically  than  a  thousand 
protestations,  he  volunteered  "  to  pioneer  "  me  through 
my  difficulties,  and  to  aid  me  with  his  counsel  and 
experience. 

"  It  is  now  late,"  he  said,  at  the  close  of  a  long  and 
confidential  conversation.  "  Seven  o'clock,  by  Jupi- 
ter !  I  must  be  off,  and  you  will  not  be  sorry  to  kiss 
your  pillow  after  the  night's  carouse.  Good-night 
—  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  you  shall  see  me 
again." 

"  Oh,  say  to-morrow !  "  I  replied,  very  loth  to  part 
with  him  at  all. 

"  If  I  can  I  will,  but  I  must  not  promise.     I  go 
out  in  January,  and  there  is  three  years'  work  to  do  in 
nearly  as  many  months.     According  to  the  latest  cal- 
culations, I  have  but  five  hours  to  spare.     With  six 
months  clear  before  me  which  I  could  call  my  own,  I 
might  have  taken  my  ease.      Considerate  alma  mater 
is  not  hard  upon  her  young  ones.    Long  may  her  reli- 
gious and  ancient  foundations  rest  undisturbed  I  " 
"  Well,  wait  a  little  longer  now." 
"  Don't  ask  me — good-by  till  we  meet  again." 
He  departed,  and  left  me  to  myself — a  hideous  com- 
panion in  my  present  mood.    To  my  great  comfort,  he 
returned  almost  immediately. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  149 

"  You  are  dull  and  low-spirited  this  evening. 
What  say  you,  Stukely? — will  you  take  a  stroll? 
You  may  be  the  better  for  it.  It  will  cool  your 
head." 

"  No,  thank  you.  Temple,"  I  replied,  "  I  would 
rather  keep  at  home  to-night." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right ;  good-by  once 
more." 

He  was  on  the  threshold,  when  I  called  him  back. 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  it  will  cool  my  head  ? 
Well,  the  fresh  air  may  revive  me.  I  shall  be  back 
before  eight  o'clock." 

"  As  early  as  you  please.  But  do  not  be  per- 
suaded." 

"  I'll  walk  a  little  way." 

As  we  crossed  the  court,  I  begged  Temple  to  en- 
quire at  Deboos's  rooms  "  if  the  gentleman  was  still 
in  danger."     He  icas  very  had! 

My  friend's  apartments  were  distant  about  a  mile 
from  the  college.  He  rented  the  principal  rooms  of 
a  small  cottage,  whose  front  was  adorned  with  a  thick- 
spreading  vine,  and  sweet  flowers  rising  from  the 
ground  and  clambering  to  the  windows.  It  was  a 
dwelling  for  a  hermit  or  a  lover.  I  accompanied  him 
to  the  door;  and,  as  I  shook  him  by  the  hand  at 
parting,  the  quiet  freshness  of  the  place  touched  me, 
and  started  a  deeply-seated  sigh. 

"  You  are  cold  after  your  walk,"  said  Temple 
looking  at  me ;  "  step  in,  and  take  a  cordial" 


150  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  No,  no,"  I  said  shuddering,  and  loathing  the  very 
thought  of  liquor ;  "  no.  Temple,  no  more  drink." 

"  Well,  not  for  the  world  unless  you  are  disposed. 
I  shall  not  persuade  you ;  but  I  am  not  a  stranger  to 
your  sensations.  A  bitter  cordial,  mark  you,  medi- 
cinally"  

"  No ;  do  not  ask  me.  I  will  step  into  your  pretty 
cot  for  a  minute — look  at  your  rooms,  and  then  away." 

"  After  you,  then,"  said  Temple,  motioning  for- 
wards. 

His  rooms  were  small,  but  very  snug.  The  order 
and  arrangement  of  the  quiet  furniture — the  pretty 
chimney  ornaments — the  small  flower-pots,  covered 
with  green  paper  fantastically  cut — the  painted  china 
vase,  with  its  graceful  flowers,  newly  culled,  all  be- 
spoke a  woman's  hand,  and  the  presidency  of  a  spirit 
less  rigorous  than  man's.  The  apartment  thus  distin- 
guished was  occupied  by  four  individuals,  friends  of 
my  host,  and  apparently  not  unexpected.  They  were 
about  his  own  age,  and  under-graduates.  Their  caps 
and  gowns  were  thrown  carelessly  over  two  chairs, 
which  deformed  one  angle  of  the  room,  and  disturbed 
the  general  harmony. 

I  was  made  known  to  the  visitors,  who  bowed  civilly 
and  formally  to  me,  evincing  neither  pleasure  nor  dis- 
like at  the  introduction,  and  making  no  further  effort 
to  arrive  at  intimacy. 

"  Rest  yourself  there  a  moment,  Stukely,  and  never 
mind  us.     Here's  a  book  of  drawino^s.     Amuse  vour- 


CALEB  STUKELT.  151 

self."  And  he  placed  a  cosey  arm-chair  before  me, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  handsomely  bound  book  in  my 
hand.     "  But  stay,  I  have  forgotten  the  cordial." 

Before  company,  I  had  power  to  resist  no  longer. 
He  produced  from  a  square  mahogany  case  a  minia- 
ture decanter,  from  which  he  poured  a  very  small 
quantity  of  creamy  liquid. 

"  It  is  proper  stuff,  I  can  assure  you." 
It  was  delicious  indeed — very  pungent  and  very 
bitter,  but  so  felicitouly  adapted  to  the  existing  state 
of  my  palate,  that,  if  they  were  not  created  for  each 
other,  it  was  a  splendid  accident  that  brought  them 
into  union.  I  sat  down  refreshed,  lolled  in  the  chair, 
and  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  sketch-book.  Whilst 
I  was  busy.  Temple  and  his  friends  were  not  idle.  A 
square  table,  covered  with  green  baize,  was  rolled  into 
the  centre  of  the  room,  and  two  candles,  at  opposite 
corners,  were  placed  upon  it.  Temple  and  three  of 
the  visitors  sat  over  against  one  another  in  pairs.  A 
pack  of  cards  were  taken  from  a  drawer,  were  shuffled, 
cut,  distributed,  then  scattered,  and  collected — per- 
forming, in  their  various   turns,  the  thirteen  mystic 

acts  that  make  up Whist. 

The  players  were  good.  I  knew  the  game  obscurely, 
and  their  skill  compelled  my  whole  attention.  In 
spite  of  my  good  resolution  to  return  by  eight  o'clock, 
I  sat  for  an  hour  or  two  with  great  composure  and 
delight  I  might  have  sat  for  an  hour  or  two  longer, 
if  Temple  had  not  taken  care  of  me.      The  fourth 


152  CALEB  STUKELY. 

visitor  at  length  cut  in,  and  Temple,  whose  place  he 
had  taken,  called  me  aside. 

"  Now  Stukely,"  said  he,  "return  to  college.  You 
cannot  afford  at  present  to  give  them  a  fresh  cause  of 
complaint;  you  may  get  into  trouble,  and  I  should 
never  forgive  myself  if  I  were  the  cause  of  it.  It 
must  not  be.  You  shall  see  me  to-morrow ;  take  care 
of  yourself." 

"  This  is  indeed  kind  of  you.  Temple,"  I  replied, 
squeezing  his  hand ;  "  you  are  a  true  friend." 

"  I  shall  live  to  convince  you  that  I  am,"  he  an- 
swered, returning  my  grasp.  "  Good-night;  never 
mind  the  men — they  are  very  busy,  and  we  have  no 
ceremony  here." 

I  shook  my  considerate  friend  once  more  by  the 
hand,  and  departed  from  the  cottage.  The  night  was 
very  fair.  The  moon  was  up,  and  filled  the  earth 
with  tranquil  loveliness.  The  light  of  noon  was  shed 
abroad  without  the  glare.  It  was  a  passionless  day, 
and  no  night.  A  medicinal  healing  softness  does  the 
moonshine  pour  upon  a  wounded  heart.  I  knew  it,  as 
I  issued  from  beneath  the  cottage  eaves ;  and  very  sad 
was  I  to  think  how  soon  the  moon  would  disappear, 
and  the  harsh  day  return  again  !  As  I  stepped  from 
the  doorway  into  the  open  road,  the  casement  above 
my  head  was  hastily  thrown  up.  Turning  towards  it 
with  a  natural  impulse,  I  beheld,  stooping  from  the 
window,  a  young  and  handsome  female.  By  the  light 
that  shone,  her  jet-black  hair  and  ivory  skin  were 


CALEB  STUKELY.  loS 

visible ;  just  for  one  instant  did  I  gaze,  and  then  the 
form,  observing  me,  withdrew.  One  hasty  glance 
formed  but  a  slight  connexion  with  this  moonlight 
vision ;  yet  by  this  first  and  slender  link  had  the  great 
enemy  secured  my  future  misery  and  fall. 

Daylight  brought  back  the  cares  of  day.  Rising 
the  following  morning,  my  first  concern  was  to  ascer- 
tain the  state  of  Deboos's  health,  and  this  was  very 
satisfactory.  My  next  to  visit  Easyman;  he  had 
received  his  exeat,  and  had  gone  to  London  !  So  also 
had  all  the  men  who  had  shared  with  me  his  hospi- 
tality. With  this  information,  I  turned  to  a  more 
difficult  task — a  letter  to  my  mother.  Temple,  during 
our  pleasant  walk  on  the  preceding  evening,  had 
strongly  enforced  the  necessity  of  writing  home  imme- 
diately, in  order  to  secure  myself  against  exposure, 
and  to  save  my  parents  needless  sorrow  and  alarm. 
The  plan  of  future  conduct  which  my  new  counsellor 
had  marked  out,  may  be  partly  gathered  from  the 
epistle  which  I  forwarded.     It  was  as  follows : — 

"  Dearest  Mother, — You  will  no  doubt  be  surprised 
to  hear  that  I  have  determined,  subject  to  your  per- 
mission, to  remain  in  Cambridge  during  the  long 
vacation.  Your  surprise  will  cease,  however,  when  I 
inform  you,  that  the  scholarship  of  which  you  have 
heard  so  much  will  not  be  tried  for  until  next  com- 
mencement. They  have  allowed  us  longer  time  to 
read  the  subjects.     Dearest  mother,  how  I  regret  this 


1  54  CALEB  STUKELY. 

separation,  you  can  guess.  I  am  consoled,  however, 
when  I  reflect  that  I  am  doing  my  duty.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  have  the  opportunities  for  reading  at  home 
which  we  find  here ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that,  by 
remaining  up,  I  shall  eventually  secure  what  all  of  us 
have  so  much  at  heart.  Who  knows  so  well  as  you, 
that  if  I  were  allowed  to  follow  my  own  inclination,  I 
should  not  remain  another  hour  absent  from  my  home? 
Believe  me. 

Dearest  Mother, 

Yotir  dutiful  and  loving  son, 

Caleb  Stukely. 
P.  S. — As  the  long  vacation  will  be  expensive,  I 
should  be  grateful  for  a  further  remittance  of  fifty 
pounds." 

Such  was  the  letter,  advised  by  Mr  Temple,  written 
by  myself.  We  are  generally  proud  of  our  portraits. 
I  turn  away  from  mine  with  shame  ! 

Villanous  and  full  of  lies,  however,  as  this  precious 
document  undoubtedly  is,  let  me  have  credit  with  the 
reader  for  the  very  small  under-current  of  virtue  that 
runs  hidden  from  his  view.  When  Temple  suggested 
to  me  that  my  father  might  be  grieved  and  vexed  at 
my  failure — my  mother  possibly  rendered  frantic  if 
she  heard  of  my  critical  position,  anxiety  for  them 
melted  me,  and  rendered  me  susceptible  of  any  im- 
pression. When  he  told  me  that,  in  a  few  days, 
Deboos  would  be  well,  and  no  more  heard  of  that ; 


CALEB  STUKELY.  loo 

that  if  I  waited  up,  and  read  determinedly  and  hard, 
I  should  be  sure  to  get  the  scholarship  given  to  second 
year's  men,  which  scholarship  I  could  assure  my 
honoured  parents  was  the  one  they  knew  of;  when  he 
added,  too,  that  in  my  case  to  speak  the  truth  was 
vicious,  I  was  prepared  to  write  as  I  was  taught :  nor 
did  I  blush  to  do  so,  and  to  add,  at  his  particular 
desire,  the  small  request  that  figured  in  the  postscript. 
After  the  lapse  of  a  few  days  the  post  brought  down 
the  sum  required,  and  with  it  a  long,  loving  letter, 
that  would  have  saved  me  from  the  precipice  on  which 
I  stood,  but  that  a  new  and  fatal  fascination  lured  me 
onwards,  and  kept  me  spellbound  till  I  should  make 
the  final  leap,  and  plunge  headlong  to  ruin.  A  second 
and  a  third  time  the  same  whist  party  met  in  Temple's 
rooms,  and  I  was  there,  a  mere  spectator,  as  at  first. 
Temple  maintained  a  steady,  considerate  regard, 
offered  me  on  all  occasions  a  slight  refreshment,  and 
at  an  early  hour  insisted  on  my  taking  leave  of  him ; 
so  very  much  he  feared  that  late  hours  would  give 
offence  at  college,  and  he  might  be  the  cause  of  any 
trouble.  Ever  as  I  passed  the  cottage  door,  curiosity 
prompted  me  to  gaze  above,  and  catch  another  glimpse 
of  the  fair  form — but  the  accident  did  not  occur  again. 
Once  I  asked  Temple  who  the  lady  was.  He  answer- 
ed me  with  a  smile,  and  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder, 
"  All  in  good  time ;  you  shall  know  by-and-by ; "  and 
then,  with  no  good  reason,  I  coloured  up  and  looked 
ashamed. 


1 .56  CALEB  STUKELY. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  Deboos  was  able  to  get 
about  again.  He  had  received  a  severe  wound,  and 
had  greatly  suffered  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood.  I 
received  justice  from  the  good  Shakspearian.  His  first 
business,  after  his  recovery,  was  to  wait  upon  the  mas- 
ter, and  to  exonerate  me  from  all  share  in  the  affray  by 
which  he  had  nearly  lost  his  life.  Neither  his  debility, 
nor  the  awful  termination  of  his  last  quotations,  pre- 
vented him  from  addressing  the  master  in  his  usual 
strain. 

"  I  had  rather,"  he  said;-"  have  this  tongue  cut  from 
my  mouth. 
Than  it  should  do  offence  to  Caleb  Stukely  ; 
Yet  I  persuade  myself,  to  speak  the  truth 
Shall  nothing  wrong  him.     Thus  it  is,  master." 

And,  in  his  original  fashion,  he  proceeded  to  explain 
the  cause  of  quarrel,  and  Easyman's  violent  aggression. 
Deboos's  heart  was  good,  and  in  it  he  found  something 
to  quote  even  to  excuse  the  man  who  had  neither  pity 
nor  regard  for  him.     He  added, 

"  More  of  this  matter  can  I  not  report. 
But  men  are  men — the  best  sometimes  forget. 
And  even  in  rage  strike  those  that  wish  them  best." 

Shortly  after  our  visit  to  the  master,  I  accompanied 
the  worthy  Deboos  to  the  inn,  from  which  he  was 
about  to  set  out  on  his  way  to  his  native  town.  He 
took  his  seat  in  the  coach,  and  gave  me  his  hand. 

"  The  men  have  acted  vilely  by  you,  Stukely,  in 
this  business.  You  have  been  a  victim,  and,  upon  my 
soul,  I  am  sorry  for  you." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  lo7 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  I  replied  with  naivete.     "  I  am 
grateful  for  what  you  have  done  for  me." 

"  Ah,  Stukely,"  he  said,  breaking  out  afresh, 

"  Thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 
As  e'er  my  conversation  coped  withal. 
******     Thou  hast  been 
As  one  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing. 
A  man  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 
Has  ta'en  with  equal  thanks ; — and  bless'd  are  those 
Whose  " 

The  speech  was  not  finished.  The  coach  started 
in  the  middle  of  it,  and  I  heard  Shakspeare  from  the 
lips  of  Mr  Deboos  for  the  last  time.  Upon  the  day 
that  I  received  from  the  master  permission  to  leave 
Cambridge,  Temple  strongly  recommended  me  to  take 
lodgings  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  cottage.  He  be- 
lieved that  the  purer  air  of  the  suburb  would  invigorate 
my  constitution,  and  that  the  influences  of  the  lovely 
situation  would  be  highly  favourable  to  the  reading. 
Nothing  could  be  kinder  than  the  interest  which  he 
took  in  my  welfare.  What  could  be  more  friendly 
than  this  advice  ?  I  acted  upon  it  with  alacrity.  Two 
rooms  of  moderate  size,  in  a  cottage  that  was  attached 
to  a  farm-house,  I  selected  for  my  residence.  My 
books  were  removed  from  college.  I  placed  them  on 
the  shelves  with  a  cheerfulness  that  I  had  not  known 
for  many  months.  I  felt  my  heart  new  opened.  A. 
determined  desire  to  do  well,  that  augured  promisingly 
for  my  future  peace  of  mind,  gave  a  briskness  to  my 
movements,  and  a  glad  activity  to  my  thoughts.    Tem- 


158  CALEB  STUKELT. 

pie  called  upon  me  whilst  I  was  thus  employed,  and 
his  spirits  were  as  elated  as  my  own. 

"  This  is  comfortable  indeed,  Stukely.  Ah,  we 
shall  make  all  right  yet !  A  little  relaxation  and  pro- 
per enjoyment,  to  recover  you  from  the  annoyances  of 
the  past,  and  then  you  will  have  strength  for  any 
thing." 

"  I  am  resolved  at  least,  Temple,  to  be  wiser  for 
the  time  to  come.  I  have  been  very  unfortunate ;  but 
if  I  have  learned  nothing  from  misfortune  I  deserve  to 
suffer  again.  In  the  fii-st  place,  I  shall  read  no  more 
with  Cube.  I  am  satisfied  that  he  floored  me  !  If  I 
had  read  what  he  desired  me  to  omit,  and  omitted  what 
he  advised  me  to  read,  I  should  have  done  better.  It 
serves  me  right." 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  the  fault  of  the  place.  Every 
thing  is  done  in  excitement.  I  hate  excitement. 
You  may  depend  upon  it,  Cambridge  life  will  always 
be  disgusting  until  they  learn  to  take  things  quietly. 
No  man  can  live  comfortably  in  a  constant  sweat." 

"  And  yet.  Temple,  how  many  men  have  become 
immortal  under  this  very  system  ! " 

"  You  mean  to  say — in  spite  of  it  ?  " 

"  Ah  me,"  said  I,  pricked  by  my  love  of  approba- 
tion, "  what  would  I  give  to  become  a  great  man  !  It 
is  worth  something  to  be  spoken  of  by  all  the  world. 
But  it  will  never  be.  I  feel  that  I  shall  never  do  any 
good.     The  first  failure  has  been  a  deathblow  to  me." 

"  I  don't  beUeve  it." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  159 

«*  And  I  hope  not.  But  I  can  never  read  another 
page  with  confidence.  And  they  say  confidence  is  the 
parent  of  success." 

"  Yes,  as  we  should  say  at  Newmarket,  '  Success, 
got  by  Confidence,  out  of  Hard  Labour.'  But  when 
you  have  put  your  harness  on  again,  and  have  spent  a 
few  pleasant  evenings  with  us,  you'll  have  a  different 
tale  to  tell.  By  the  way,  you'll  dine  with  us  to-day  ? 
There  will  be  nobody  but  my  cousin,  whom  you  have 
not  yet  seen.  In  the  evening  your  old  friends  will 
amuse  you  with  a  rubber." 

"  They  are  first-rate  players,  are  they  not  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,  pretty  fair.  You  are  not  asleep  either. 
From  an  observation  that  you  made  the  other  night 
when  Roberts  passed  my  king,  I  guess  that  you  would 
be  a  match  for  any  one  of  them.  You  have  no  taste 
for  the  game,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  You  have  nobler 
sport  before  you." 

"  If  you  really  think  I  am  able.  I  shouldn't  mind 
trying  them  this  evening.     Mind,  just  for  one  game." 

"  As  to  your  ability,  I  wish  I  was  as  sure  of  a  liv- 
ing when  I  have  taken  my  degree.  You  shall  please 
yourself,  provided  that  you  play  for  love." 

"  As  to  that,  I  shall  not  play  high,  but  it  wouldn't 
do  to  interfere  with  the  other  men.  Threepenny 
points  will  not  ruin  us.  It  is  but  for  once.  When  I 
begin  to  work  again,  nothing,  you  know,  must  inter- 
fere with  that.     One  night's  whist  can't  ruin  a  man." 

Temple's  dinner-hour  was  four  o'clock.      Shortly 


1  60  CALEB  STUKELT. 

before  that  hour  I  had  got  my  httle  rooms  in  order, 
and,  as  I  surveyed  them  before  my  departure,  I  could 
not  but  congratulate  myself  on  their  genteel  and 
scholastic  look.  Much  reading  did  I  mentally  confer 
upon  myself;  and,  in  truth,  more  passionate  love  for 
my  shelved  friends  did  I  never  experience,  than  when 
I  turned  my  back  upon  them  and  hastened  from  the 
house. 

Arriving  at  the  cottage,  I  opened  the  door,  as  was 
my  custom,  and  walked  up  stairs.  I  entered  Temple's 
neatly-furnished  room,  and  beheld  sitting  at  the  table, 
alone,  engaged  in  needlework,  the  very  lady  I  had 
seen  before  partially,  by  moonlight,  at  the  window. 
Confused  by  the  unexpected  sight,  and  riveted  by  her 
uncommon  beauty  and  graceful  form,  it  was  a  moment 
or  two  before  I  evinced  my  unwillingness  to  break 
upon  her  privacy,  and  my  readiness  to  retire.  She 
rose,  however,  to  prevent  me,  and  with  a  winning  smile, 
and  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  overflow  with  melody, 
she  begged  me  to  remain. 

"  I  came  to  Mr  Temple,  madam,"  I  said,  looking 
full  upon  her,  and  unable  to  withdraw  the  look ;  "  I 
was  not  aware" 

The  lady  answered,  ''  Oh,  he  will  soon  be  here! 
Pray,  be  seated.     Mr  Stukely,  I  presume  ?  " 

I  bowed. 

"  Mr  Temple  expects  you.  He  is  very  late.  Some- 
thing has  detained  him."  And  she  went  to  the 
window  as  if  to  look  for  him,  and  displayed  a  figure 


CALEB  STUKELY.  161 

such  as  I  knew  to  exist  in  poets'  fancies — and  only 
there. 

She  closed  the  casement,  and  took  her  seat  again. 
"  I  cannot  see  him.     It  is  very  unfortunate." 

I  could  not  think  so.  For  I  experienced  all  that 
mawkish  awkwardness  which  the  presence  of  lovely 
woman — so  elegant  and  much  at  ease  herself — inva- 
riably inspires  in  caged  and  colleged  spirits ;  and  I 
was  glad  to  view,  alone  and  unobserved,  the  charms 
that  had  so  suddenly  revealed  themselves.  The  lady 
plied  her  needle,  and  kindly  bent  her  head. 

How  the  perception  of  my  inferiority  stung  me  to 
the  quick,  as  I   sat  cowed  and  speechless  before  this 
gentle  specimen  of  the  weaker  sex !     What  topic  to 
introduce,  what  interesting  subject  to  discuss,  alas  ! 
I  knew  not.     Many   times  my  broad  mouth  opened 
and  emitted  air,  and  more  than  once  I  sent  my  eye 
abroad  to  catch  an  object  that  might  afford  me  matter 
for  a  dozen  words.      Finding  nothing,   the   orb   too 
gladly  fixed  again  upon  the  lady  and  her  needlework. 
The  lady  spoke  at  length,  in  pity  or  contempt. 
"  Are  you  fond  of  poetry,  Mr  Stukely  ?  " 
"  Oh,  very,  madam  !     Are  you  a  poet  ?  " 
"  I    scribble    verses    sometimes — not   worth    your 
reading." 

"  Perhaps  you  like  mathematics  better  ?  " 
"  I   might,    if    I   understood   them.      Here    is    a 
volume  of  Cowper,  my  favourite  bard.     It  may  enter- 
tani  you." 

VOL.   I.  O 


162  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  If  he  is  a  favourite  of  yours,"  I  said,  with  the 
recklessness  of  a  man  driven  by  a  resistless  force  to 
say  something  good  or  bad,  "  I  am  sure  he  must  be 
worth  the  reading.     How  is  he  for  quantities  ?  " 

"  He  has  written  a  very  great  deal,  if  you  mean 
that,"  replied  the  lady ;  "but  he  never  tires  you.  It 
is  not  like  poetry,"  she  continued,  putting  a  volume 
into  my  hands,  "  it  is  all  so  natural  and  simple — so 
easy  to  be  understood." 

Had  r  dared,  I  would  have  begged  her  to  point  out 
the  passages  which  she  particularly  approved;  but  the 
one  brief  hair-breadth  touch  of  her  alabaster  fingers 
had  taken  away  my  speech.  I  longed  for  the  time  to 
come  when  I  should  return  the  book,  and  touch  that 
hand  again. 

The  volume  contained  the  translation  of  the  Iliad. 
My  eyes  swam  convulsively  over  the  page,  but  saw 
nothing  except  a  fairy  phantom  of  a  narrow  hand,  with 
white  and  tapered  fingers.  "  Yes,  madam,"  I  ex- 
claimed mechanically,  "  it  is  very  natural,  and  very 
easy  to  be  understood." 

"  Are  you  an  admirer  of  sketches,  Mr  Stukely  ?  " 
enquired  again  the  owner  of  the  milkwhite  hand. 

"  Above  all  things,  madam." 

"  Oh,  you  are  a  sketcher,  then  ! " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  But  I  hope  you  have  some 
drawings  to  show  me.  I  am  sure  you  can  draw  and 
paint  beautifully ;  that  incomparable  hand  was  made 
for  it,"  I  added,  getting  delirious. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  163 

"  I  have  a  book  here,"  said  the  lady,  not  noticing 
the  flattery,  or  whatever  else  she  might  deem  it,  and 
pointing  to  the  handsomely-bound  portfolio  which  I 
had  often  fingered  through  and  through.  "  I  think 
you  have  seen  it  already." 

"  No,  never  madam,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  Here  are  one  or  two  clever  things  by  an  artist, 
but  the  rest  are  mere  scratches.  This  is  very  pretty 
now,"  she  exclaimed,  putting  her  finger  on  a  scene  in 
somewhere. 

"  Celestial  ! "  I  exclaimed,  with  reference  to  the 
finger. 

"  And  so  is  this" and  50— very  soon  we  held  the 

book  between  us.  Now  she  turned  over  the  leaves — 
now  I.  My  face  scorched  rapidly,  and  my  heart 
throbbed  and  sickened  with,  I  knew  not  what — a  pain- 
ful enjoyment  of  the  keenest  pleasure  never  before 
experienced.  My  head  bent  over  the  book,  no  levers 
could  have  raised  it,  and  I  turned  and  turned  the  pages 
over  immethodically,  and  almost  blind.  The  black 
and  glossy  tresses  of  the  lovely  lady,  as  they  streamed 
with  the  quick  movements  of  her  head,  more  than  once 
assailed  my  cheek,  and  set  it  tingling  with  a  wild 
timidity.  Strangely  confused,  I  put  my  hand  near 
hers,  by  accident  they  touched,  and  then,  from  head  to 
foot,  my  poor  frame  quivered. 

Had  not  Temple's  footstep  at  this  serious  crisis 
brought  me  with  balloon  speed  to  the  earth  again, 
what  would  have  happened  next  I  cannot  say.     Per- 


164  CALEB  STUKELY. 

haps  I  should  have  fainted,  or,  more  likely  still,  have 
thrown  myself  at  the  fair  lady's  feet,  and  vowed  myself 
eternally  her  slave.  The  fiercest  passion  may  be 
overcome  more  easily  than  is  allowed.  The  fear  of 
discovery,  the  shame  of  exposure,  subdued  me  in  an 
instant.  I  ceased  to  tremble,  and  began  to  think. 
Retiring  a  pace  or  two,  I  assumed  an  easy  and  artistic 
air,  and  was  deep  in  the  study  of  "  a  view  in  Venice," 
before  Temple  reached  the  door.  I  flattered  myself 
that  I  was  safe  from  his  suspicion.  The  lady  main- 
tained her  position  wijh  unaffected  calmness,  and 
criticised  the  compositions  up  to  the  very  period  of  his 
entrance.  I  listened  with  undivided  attention  until 
she  had  uttered  the  last  word,  and  not  till  then  did  I 
venture  to  return  his  friendly  greeting. 

Temple  apologized  for  his  unavoidable  absence, 
and  introduced  me  formally  to  his  lady  friend. 
"  Stukely,"  he  said,  "  you  have  never  met  my  cousin 
before.  Emma,  this  is  my  friend  Stukely.  Stukely, 
my  cousin  Emma" — and  he  smiled  slightly,  but  pecu- 
liarly, as  he  introduced  us.  I  should  in  all  probability 
not  have  noticed  this,  had  I  not  recollected  imme- 
diately, that  in  the  morning  he  had  smiled  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  manner  when  he  invited  me  to  meet 
his  cousin  at  dinner.  1  was  puzzled  to  guess  his 
meaning.  Did  he  wish  to  insinuate  that  I  had  made 
an  interesting  impression  on  the  heart  of  his  beauteous 
relative,  upon  the  evening  that  she  had  caught  so  very 
partial  a  glimpse  of  my  form  and  features  ?  Verily  I 


CALEB  STUKELY.  165 

believed  that  such  was  his  design,  and  straightway  I 
peeped  into  the  looking-glass,  and  a  countenance, 
radiant  with  complacency  and  conceit,  was  reflected 
from  that  faithful  index. 

We  dined.  Temple  was  in  high  spirits.  But  for 
myself,  in  spite  of  every  attempt  that  I  made  at 
cheerfulness,  and  notwithstanding  the  help  afibrded 
by  the  wine — which  wine,  by  the  way,  had  already 
ceased  to  nauseate — I  could  not  rise  permanently 
from  the  slough  of  despondency  into  which  the  former 
excitement  had  efl*ectually  cast  me.  Heavy  sighs 
escaped  me  at  intervals.  They  would  have  been 
remarked  by  an  observer  infinitely  less  keen  than 
James  Temple. 

"  Come,  come,  Stukely,  you  must  forget  the  past. 
Live  for  the  future.  All  the  grumbling  in  the  world 
cannot  alter  what  has  happened.  Take  my  word  for 
it,  you  will  do  well  next  year." 

I  permitted  and  encouraged  his  thoughts  to  flow  in 
this  channel. 

"  Fill  your  glass,"  he  continued ;  "  and,  Emma, 
you  are  taking  nothing.  What  ails  you  both  ?  Thank 
Heaven  I  have  not  lost  my  appetite." 

And  to  give  proof  of  this  he  dived  at  once  into  a 
chicken.  I  took  that  opportunity  to  steal  a  look  at 
Emma,  just  to  observe  her  true  condition.  Her  pur- 
l)ose  was  the  same.  Electric  was  the  mutual  glance. 
Our  eyes  met,  and  I  blushed  to  the  forehead.  I 
loathed  my  food  immediately,  and  eat  no  more.     The 


1G6  CALEB  STUKELY. 

dinner  ended.  Temple,  throughout  its  operation,  had 
been  fortunately  too  busy  to  note  the  reason  of  my 
uneasiness  and  confusion.  Ever  and  anon,  as  often 
as  he  reposed  from  eating,  (and  he  eat  with  an  avidity 
and  gout  that  were  truly  disgusting  to  me,  who  could 
taste  nothing,)  he  would  still  make  a  passing  remark 
upon  the  lowness  of  my  spirits,  but  referring  them 
always  to  a  cause  by  which  I  was  in  no  way  affected. 

Later  in  the  evening,  the  four  inseparables  arrived 
to  whist,  and  shortly  before  their  appearance  the  lady 
had  retired.  I  took  part  in  the  play,  according  to  the 
previous  arrangement,  and  became  the  partner  of 
Temple.  But  the  desire  to  exercise  my  skill,  which 
had  been  so  acute  in  the  morning,  had  evaporated. 
Now  that  Emma  was  gone,  I  became  restless,  and 
wished  to  go  too ;  the  hours  had  passed  so  very 
quickly  whilst  she  was  present,  and  the  minutes  lagged 
so  heavily  in  her  absence.  Once  or  twice  the  men 
played  out  their  three  cards,  and  looked  to  me  to 
follow  with  the  fourth  ;  but  the  door  having  suddenly 
opened  on  these  occasions,  my  eyes  instantly  bolted 
thither,  and  I  forgot  the  cards,  the  players,  and  every 
other  sublunary  thing,  with  the  exception  of  the 
lovely  Emma,  whom  I  expected  incontinently  to 
walk  in.  A  servant-maid  invariably  destroyed  the 
catalepsy : — Strange,  that  in  spite  of  these  interrup- 
tions, the  men  should  have  applauded  my  playing 
throughout !  I  rose  from  the  table  a  loser  to  the 
extent  of  three  pounds  ten  shillings. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  167 

It  v/as  on  this  eventful  night  that  I  became  the 
subject  of  a  mysterious  phenomenon.  /  loas  carried 
home  through  the  air.  I  have  not  the  most  shadowy 
recollection  of  walking  upon  the  ground ;  nor  had  I  that 
very  night,  when — perfectly  sensible  and  sober,  as  far 
as  drink  is  concerned — I  put  my  feet  into  the  bed, 
v/ondering  how  I  got  there.  There  I  was  at  home, 
and  certainly  in  my  bed,  but  I  had  reached  it  with  no 
species  of  physical  exertion,  without  the  smallest 
muscular  energy,  W\t\\  no  thought  of  active  locomotion. 
I  could  call  to  memory  no  roads  which  I  had  passed, 
no  paths  that  I  had  traversed.  Invisible  spirits  had 
taken  charge  of  my  body,  whilst  my  mind  was  bewil- 
dered and  lost  in  an  ecstatic  reverie. 

I  had  passed  the  day  in  a  fitful  fever,  but  "  I  did 
not  sleep  well."  I  turned  and  tossed,  dozed  and  started 
up.  If  I  slept,  I  dreamt.  If  I  kept  awake,  I  dreamt. 
Were  my  eyes  open,  the  image  of  Emma  was  fixed 
upon  the  retina ;  were  my  eyes  shut,  that  image  was 
vivid  and  distinct.  Now  I  slumbered,  with  a  convic- 
tion that  I  was  wide  awake  and  active.  Now  I  looked 
about  me,  satisfied  that  I  was  fast  asleep  and  dreaming. 
A  deep  sleep  of  about  two  hours,  by  which  I  was 
overcome  late  in  the  morning,  saved  me,  perhaps, 
from  madness.  It  quieted  me  wonderfully,  inducing, 
when  I  awoke,  a  decided  reaction,  that  might  have 
lasted,  if  I  could  have  kept  in  bed  for  ever  afterwards, 
or  fixed  my  thoughts  for  ever  in  their  present  healthy 
tone.     My  bedroom  opened  into  the  sitting  parlour. 


168  CALEB  STUKELY. 

The  door  of  the  latter  stood  upon  its  hinges,  and  as 
I  lay  on  my  pillow,  my  books,  all  so  cosily  arranged, 
looked  in,  and  cast  upon  me  a  silent  and  reproachful 
look.  Instinctively,  and  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger, 
I  turned  my  back  upon  them ;  but  my  good  genius 
bade  me  turn  again,  and  I  surveyed  them  with  a  spirit 
chastened  by  their  friendly  admonition,  "  Yes  !  "  I 
mentally  exclaimed,  "  this  look  is  providential.  I  will 
regard  it.  Dear  friends,  you  call  me  back  to  duty ;  I 
will  obey  the  summons." 

I  rose,  I  dressed  myself.  I  took  my  breakfast,  and 
then  spread  my  books  and  papers  on  the  small  read- 
ing-table. I  did  not  speak  a  word.  The  waiting 
servant-maid  performed  her  work  in  silence,  and 
seemed  to  feel  that  talking  would  not  please  me.  It 
would  now  be  difficult  to  describe  the  exact  condition 
of  my  mind,  if  I  were  able  to  decide  it.  I  know  I  was 
doggedly  resolute — determined  to  read  hard,  and  to 
permit  no  thought  of  her  to  rest  upon  my  brain.  I 
bit  my  lip,  and  frowned — deeming,  perchance,  per- 
sonal severity  to  be  needful  for  moral  protection,  and 
to  secure  fixity  of  purpose.  Giving,  in  an  austere 
voice,  orders  to  deny  me  to  all  visitors,  I  locked  the 
door,  and  thus,  armed  as  it  were  to  the  teeth,  I 
breathed  more  freely,  and  drew  a  chair  to  the  table. 
For  some  minutes — it  might  be  fifteen — I  roamed 
over  the  printed  page.  I  read  it  once,  twice,  thrice, 
again,  again,  and  again,  but  I  gathered  no  meaning — 
acquired  no  principles — imbibed  no  ideas.    The  words 


CALEB  STUKELY.  1G9 

and  syllables  passed  before  my  eyes  as  they  might 
have  passed  before  the  painted  orbs  of  a  blind  auto- 
maton. What  triumph  for  the  imps  of  darkness,  if 
they  stood  by  and  saw  the  arch-fiend  steal  away  the 
spirit,  leaving  the  carcass  there,  intent  and  studious  ! 
What  a  yell  of  victory !  Yes,  there  I  sat,  staring 
vacantly,  doltishly,  upon  the  book,  innocent  that  my 
mind  was  loose  again,  unchained,  and  far  away,  revel- 
ing in  the  luscious  beauty  I  had  sworn  never  to 
approach  again.  Such  a  state  could  not  last.  The 
fluttering  of  the  soul,  its  flitting  here  and  there,  its 
great  tumultuous  joy,  at  length  disturbed  and  shook 
the  fleshly  tabernacle.  A  sudden  shock  wakened  the 
clod  to  life  and  sensibility,  and  then  hot,  scalding  tears 
poured  in  a  torrent  down  the  unconscious  book. 

The  Rubicon  was  passed,  the  mask  had  fallen. 
The  hours  for  study  had  gone  by  for  ever.  I  would 
make  the  vain  attempt  no  more.  /  could  not  live  with- 
out the  sight  of  her. 

It  was  with  no  rash  or  passionate  step  I  walked 
once  more  towards  her  dwelling."  With  deliberate 
choice  I  sought  her  now.  I  knew  the  danger  and  the 
error.  I  felt  a  punishment  would  come,  and  I  could 
meet  it  cheerfully.  Thus  intoxicated  by  the  fascina- 
tion, falsely  and  wildly  at  ease,  I  made  the  plunge. 
No  threat,  no  entreaty,  no  fear,  no  human  power, 
could  have  held  me  back. 

For  the  following  month  I  was  a  daily  visitor  at 
Temple's  cottage.     The  mornings  were  passed  in  her 

VOL.  I.  p 


] 70  CALEB  STUKELY. 

society.  Whist  was  the  usual  occupation  of  the 
evening.  I  took  no  interest,  had  no  pleasure,  in  the 
game;  and  the  society  of  the  men  was  heavy  and 
oppressive.  But  my  daily  privilege  was  worth  a 
greater  sacrifice.  The  sums  I  lost — for  I  left  the 
table  always  a  loser — were,  judged  by  my  means,  con- 
siderable ;  but  I  noticed  the  diminution  of  my  funds 
with  apathy,  if  not  contentedly.  My  own  little  home 
had  no  attraction  for  me.  I  was  wretched  and  restless 
if  I  sat  in  the  quiet  parlour  for  an  instant.  Every 
object,  in  one  way  or  another,  would  attack  my  con- 
science. It  was  generally  very  late  at  night  when  I 
reached  the  farm-house,  and  then  I  went  instantly  to 
bed.  No  dark  thoughts  on  these  occasions  rose  to 
trouble  or  to  check  me.  All  was  dazzling  light.  A 
sorcery  bewitched  me  ever  with  a  vision  of  the  coming 
morrow.  I  anticipated  the  enjoyment  again  of  her 
bright  presence,  and,  in  prefiguring  that,  I  realized  a 
present  joy — a  gush  of  pleasure — the  more  delicious 
and  abiding  because  its  fulness  was  yet  incomplete. 
I  rocked  myself  to  sleep — not  to  forgetfulness — with 
blissful  reminiscences  of  the  winged  day  that  had  flown 
by.  Her  bashful  smile  crossed  me  in  the  darkness, 
as  it  had  at  noon.  Her  voice  thrilled  clearer  in  my 
ears.  Her  glossy  ringlets  danced  more  vividly  before 
the  shut-up  lid.  Once  more  we  walked  together  in 
the  garden-plot,  whence,  with  her  delicate  white  hand, 
she  plucked  the  coloured  flower  that  I  hugged  beneath 
my  pillow.     When  I  fell  asleep  at  length,  sleep  only 


CALEB  STUKELY.  171 

painted  the  reality — raising  the  true  unto  the  beautiful 
ideal. 

The  excitement  in  which  I  lived  caused  rae  to  be 
unobservant  of  a  fact,  which,  had  I  considered  it  at 
the  time,  must  have  called  forth  my  wonder.  Temple 
never  spoke  to  me  again  on  the  subject  of  my  reading, 
so  anxious  as  he  had  been  about  it  when  he  recom- 
mended me  to  rent  the  cottage.  Our  friendship 
warmed,  our  mutual  confidence  grew  unlimited,  our 
bearing  ripened  to  affection ;  but  we  never  recurred  to 
the  past,  nor  spoke  of  the  future.  More  remarkable 
than  this  was  his  apparent  ignorance  of  my  state  of 
mind.  By  no  word  or  act  did  he  once  make  it  evi- 
dent to  me  that  he  suspected  the  love  which  I  bore 
for  his  fair  relative.  He  did  not  remark  the  glaring 
neglect  which  I  exhibited  of  every  thing  but  her  and 
her  proceedings.  He  stood  by  unconcerned  and  silent, 
whilst  to  a  stranger's  eye  there  must  have  risen  testi- 
mony and  proof  irrefragable  of  the  raging  fire  that 
was  consuming  me. 

Temple's  favourite  amusement,  when  the  weather 
or  any  other  thing  kept  him  at  home,  was  drawing,  in 
which  art  he  was  certainly  well  skilled.  He  would 
often  employ  his  pencil  whilst  Emma  worked,  and  I 
read  aloud.  Her  favourite,  Cowper,  was  the  book. 
Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  say  that  no  other  author 
pleased  me  half  so  well?  I  marked  the  poems  she 
loved  best,  got  them  by  heart,  and  rehearsed  them  at 
every  opportunity.     Often  in  my  walks  too  and  from 


172  CALEB  STUKELV, 

lier  cottage,  repeating  the  verses  aloud  and  passion- 
ately, I  excited  the  stare  and  hroad  grin  of  senseless 
clodpoles,  who  argued  from  my  behaviour  that  I  was 
mad,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  me  so.  There  was  one 
short  poem  which  had  become  my  constant  walking 
companion,  but  I  had  not  yet  read  it  to  Emma.  I 
selected  an  opportunity  for  this  purpose.  It  was  when 
Temple  was  busy  with  his  pencil,  and  consequently 
not  in  a  situation  to  remark  the  expressive  looks  by 
which  I  hoped  to  convey  to  her  how  closely  the  nar- 
rative corresponded  with  my  own  unhappy  state.  It 
was  "  Tlie  Doves."  My  great  practice,  and  the  pro- 
found attention  I  could  always  command,  had  flattered 
me  into  the  belief  that  I  was  no  common  reader.  I 
began  with  great  solemnity,  intending  to  increase  the 
power  as  I  went  on. 

The  Doves. 

"  Reasoning  at  every  step  he  treads, 

Man  yet  mistakes  his  way. 
While  meaner  things,  whom  instinct  leads. 

Are  rarely  known  to  stray- 
One  silent  eve  I  wander 'd  forth, 

And  heard  the  voice  of  love  ; 
The  turtle  thus  address'd  her  mate. 

And  soothed  the  list'ning  dove." 

"  Talking  of  doves,"  said  Temple,  interrupting  me, 
and  rubbing  out  a  false  stroke  of  the  pencil ;  "  do  you 
mean  to  be  at  the  pigeon-match  to-morrow,  Caleb  ?  " 

We  had  agreed,  some  time  before,  to  call  each  other 
by  the   Christian  name.      With  feelings  very  much 


CALEB  STUKELY.  173 

softened  by  the  new  friendship  that  I  had  formed,  I 
rephed,  "  I  have  no  pleasure,  James,  in  witnessing  the 
agonies  and  death-  struggles  of  innocent  and  unoffend- 
ing birds." 

"Just  so,"  said  he,  "nor  have  I;  and  on  that 
account  we  don't  give  the  innocents  time  to  struggle. 
But  what  will  you  do  ?  Emma  has  a  little  business  to 
transact  in  Chesterton,  and  nobody  will  be  at  home." 

I  had  it  upon  the  very  tip  of  my  tongue  to  say  that 
I  had  a  little  business  to  transact  in  Chesterton  too, 
but  I  could  not  summon  courage  to  speak  the  lie.  I 
looked  at  Emma  instead,  and  permitted  her  to  inter- 
pret, if  she  could,  the  purpose  I  immediately  designed. 
A  soft  suffusion  of  her  cheek  spoke  dictionaries. 
Temple  continued, 

"  If  you  go,  you  stand  a  good  chance  of  winning  a 
little  money.     It  will  make  up  for  past  losses." 

"  You  know,  James,  I  never  bet." 

"  What!  not  upon  the  trump  card?" 

"  I  mean  except  at  whist." 

"  Well,  follow  your  own  inclination.  It  is  my  duty 
not  to  advise  you.  I  should  be  truly  miserable,  Caleb, 
if  I  thought  you  lost  your  money  in  consequence  of 
following  my  advice.  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  feel,  in 
whatever  happens  to  our  friends,  that  our  own  con- 
science stands  clear  and  unaccused." 

"  Why,  what  can  happen  to  me,  James  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  nothing  at  all  in  this  instance ;  I  speak 
generally.     Had  you  not  better  finish  the  poem  ?  " 


174  CALEB  STUKELY. 

I  did  SO,  sounding,  as  I  proceeded,  a  touching  love- 
lorn note,  and  fastening  upon  every  syllable  that  alluded 
ever  so  distantly  to  my  own  condition,  an  emphasis 
that  shook  the  words  to  pieces.  My  looks  accompanied 
the  accents ;  and  with  the  aid  of  both,  I  thought  it 
very  hard  if  Emma  could  not  be  brought  to  understand 
that  I  was  the  dove,  and  she  the  turtle,  so  tenderly 
described  in  the  melodious  song.  I  became  strikingly 
pathetic,  as  I  concluded  with  an  effort  to  bury  the 
last  words  in  her  very  soul. 

"  But,  oh  !  if  fickle  and  unchaste, 

{Forgive  a  transient  thought,) 
Thou  could'st  become  unkind  at  last. 

And  scorn  thy  present  lot — 
No  need  of  lightning  from  on  high. 

Or  kites  with  cruel  beak, 
Denied  the  endearments  of  thine  eye. 

This  A\ido\v'd  heart  would  break." 

During  this  recitation,  Temple  had  been  desperately 
attentive  to  his  drawing,  and  his  head  almost  touched 
the  paper,  so  strongly  was  it  curved  towards  it.  I  had 
scarcely  finished  before  he  threw  his  pencil  with  some 
energy  on  the  table,  and  burst  into  an  uncontrollable 
fit  of  laughter. — I  was  surprised. 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  Caleb.  Upon  my  soul,  I 
beg  your  pardon.  It  is  horribly  rude,  and  in  shocking 
bad  taste.  But  I  couldn't  help  it.  It  was  such  a  queer 
idea.  It  just  occurred  to  me  what  a  devilish  good 
Methodist  parson  you  would  make." 

The  sight  is  not  so  easily  offended  as  the  hearing,  or 


CALEB  STURELY.  175 

else  the  eye  is  bolder  than  the  tongue ;  for  it  will  be 
allowed  by  all,  that  before  modesty  herself  we  may 
look  at  what  we  dare  not  prate  about.  There  are 
objects,  the  slightest  oral  allusion  to  which  would 
justify  a  sentence  of  relegation,  upon  which  we  may 
openly  gaze  uncensured  and  undisturbed.  Further 
than  this :  the  eye  may  talk  when  the  mouth  must 
hush,  and  surely  it  is  a  merciful  consideration  that  has 
supplied  the  former  with  the  faculty  of  speech,  when 
the  latter  is  closed  by  prudence  or  by  fear.  I  had 
now  known  Emma  Fitzjones  three  months.  At  the 
earliest  moment  of  our  interview,  I  had  fallen  beneath 
the  aggression  of  her  beauty.  My  love  grew  in  pro- 
portion to  the  quickness  with  which  it  was  at  first 
called  forth.  It  increased  by  what  it  fed  on.  I  had 
long  ceased  to  be  master  of  my  actions — of  myself. 
Absorbed  in  her  existence,  I  had  no  happiness  excluded 
from  her  presence,  no  real  joy  but  in  feasting  on  her 
charms.  More  than  any  thing  else,  I  desired  to  tell 
her  so,  to  acquaint  her  with  the  strength  and  depth  of 
my  passion,  and  to  implore  her  to  requite  my  true 
affection — to  exchange  her  maiden  love  for  mine. 
Many  opportunities  I  had  to  make  this  interesting 
communication ;  but  I  might  have  been  dumb  for  any 
help  my  tongue  afforded  me.  It  would  not  budge. 
Every  attempt  I  made  to  disburden  my  poor  over- 
loaded heart,  threatened  me  with  suffocation — the 
words  stuck  in  my  throat,  so  sure  as  I  called  them 
there  for  utterance.     In  this  extremity,  for  the  same 


17G  CALEB  STUKELY. 

reason  that  the  bhnd  man  apphes  to  his  sense  of  touch, 
I  invoked  the  assistance  of  my  eyes,  and  eloquent  1 
am  sure  they  were,  if  they  delivered  half  that  my 
flurried  soul  conveyed  to  them.  I  hoped,  believed, 
felt  that  I  was  understood.  Still  one  syllable  would 
have  made  assurance  doubly  sure,  and,  till  it  was 
spoken,  I  was  virtually  as  much  separated  from  my 
prize  as  on  the  evening  when  I  caught  the  first  half 
glimpse  of  it,  ignorant  and  careless  of  the  value  of  the 
treasure  that  had  lighted  on  my  path.  Determined  to 
make  a  confession,  satisfied  that  I  should  be  able  to 
do  no  such  thing — alternately  courageous  as  a  lion, 
and  shy  and  fearful  as  a  lamb — on  the  morning  subse- 
quent to  the  above  scene,  I  planted  myself  in  a  narrow 
lane,  through  which  I  knew  she  must  walk  on  her 
way  to  Chesterton. 

It  was  a  brisk,  autumnal  morning — bright,  and 
love-inspiring.  The  neighbourhood  of  Cambridge,  it 
must  be  confessed,  has  very  little  interest  in  the  pic- 
turesque. Those  mighty  smallnesses,  the  Gog-magog 
excrescences,  in  spite  of  the  pardonable  and  fond  pride 
of  the  ambitious  native,  who  would  fain  believe  them 
mountains,  look  painfully  ridiculous  on  the  sensible 
horizon,  as  they  rise  there  an  inch  or  two  higher  than 
the  broad  and  barren  level.  Green  lanes  are  few,  the 
sweet  sequestered  spots  are  none.  The  far-renowned 
Cam  herself,  save  where  she  winds  with  unobtrusive 
and  scholastic  grace,  ripply  and  clear,  beside  some 
grassy  college  plain — what  is  she  but  a  slice  of  muddied 


CALEB  STUKELY.  1 1  t 

Thames,  cut  on  a  windy  day,  and  at  its  ugliest  turn, 
and  fixed  between  her  own  two  aguish  banks  of  drip- 
ping rushes  ?  The  sun,  this  fair  autumnal  morning, 
shone  upon  nature  in  her  lowliest  attire,  and  still  my 
throbbing  heart,  tuned  to  sympathy  by  love,  looked 
from  within,  and  saw  all  things  beautiful.  With  what 
a  show  of  loveliness  can  the  source  of  light,  and  the 
source  of  all  human  joy,  deck  and  enliven  the  meanest 
spot  of  earth  !  It  was  a  buoyant  day — one  that,  as  it 
passes,  we  would  gladly  cling  to,  or  keep  back — a 
cheerful  and  a  cheering  day.  Ah  !  I  have  known 
many  such,  in  seasons,  too,  of  trial  and  of  anguish, 
and  they  have  stanched  the  tear,  and  eased  the  brain, 
and  drawn  with  silken  force  the  soul  from  evil  thoughts 
to  thoughts  of  kindliness  and  love.  Ah !  thrice  blessed 
giver  of  light  and  warmth  !  Surely  it  was  upon  a  ray 
of  sunny  light  that  the  illuminated  thought  of  immor- 
tality first  streamed  into  the  savage  mind  ! 

At  an  early  hour  I  took  up  my  position.  I  was 
sure  that  I  should  see  her.  She  had  not  told  me  so ; 
but  a  conviction,  more  satisfying  than  mere  words, 
supported  my  belief — a  conviction  born  of  indistinct, 
impalpable  declarations ;  a  thousand  evident  nothings, 
from  which  I  flattered  myself  not  only  into  a  certainty 
of  our  present  meeting,  but  into  a  gratifying  belief 
that  I  had  already  won  her  virgin  young  affections.  I 
must  have  presented  a  strange  spectacle  to  an  attentive 
observer,  had  such  a  one  been  present.  I  was  ashamed 
to  be  found  by  her  watchiiif/  for  her  appearance.     1 


178  CALEB  STUKELY. 

desired  rather  to  suggest  the  idea  that  chance  had 
brought  us  at  the  same  time  to  the  spot.  With  this 
deUberate  view,  I  marched  to  the  extreme  end  of  the 
lane,  turned  the  angle  of  it,  and  took  my  body  out  of 
sight.  With  my  head  peeping  round  the  comer,  I 
marked  the  entrance  into  the  street  of  every  female 
figure.  Did  any  one  assume  the  most  remote  likeness 
to  the  lady  I  expected,  in  an  instant  I  was  out, 
advancing  towards  her  with  my  quickest,  busiest  step. 
Many  blue  bonnets,  and  many  grey  pelisses,  doomed 
me  to  disappointment,  and  sent  me,  drooping,  back 
again.  For  two  good  hours  had  I  been  "  a  wakeful 
sentry,  and  on  duty  now,"  when  a  form,  difficult  indeed 
to  be  mistaken,  tripped  into  the  lane.  Flushed  and 
confused,  I  hurried  from  the  point  of  observation,  and 
staggered  towards  it — I  was  at  Emma's  side. 

We  stopped,  we  blushed,  and  spoke.  I  made  a 
puerile  remark,  to  which  she  gave  some  answer,  and 
then  moved  gently  on.  I  turned  to  go  in  such  good 
company.  Oh  !  she  would  not  think  of  that — she  could 
not  take  me  back  again.  I  was  growing  a  sad  inventor. 
With  brazen  audacity,  albeit  with  a  weak  and  faltering 
voice,  I  said  that  I  was  walking  forward  when  the 
sight  of  her  had  stopped  me  in  my  progress  Did  she 
suppose,  I  marvel,  that  I  had  eyes  behind  as  well  as 
eyes  before  ? 

How  shall  I  narrate  the  whole  of  a  conversation 
which  was  forgotten  an  hour  after  it  took  place,  or 
which,  more  properly  to  speak,  never  was  remembered? 


CALEB  STUKELY.  179 

We  walked  on.  For  the  first  time  I  had  possession 
of  her  arm.  I  held  it  at  a  modest  distance,  and 
scarcely  felt  its  fairy  weight.  Proud  as  a  monarch 
was  I  of  my  prize  !  As  we  proceeded,  the  sensible 
burden  became  distinct  and  undeniable,  and  my  heart 
grew  bolder.  A  tender  pressure,  hardly  intended, 
conceived  and  executed  like  a  flash,  suspended  me  in 
keen  and  dreadful  doubt.  It  did  not  offend.  I 
gloried  in  triumphant  love.  Still  we  proceeded,  and 
the  arm  I  gathered  in  a  closer  fold,  and  constrained 
with  gentlest  might.  We  reached  the  water  side. 
Upon  the  bank  we  strolled,  silent  and  overpowered. 
Her  arm  had  fallen,  and  our  hands  were  clasped.  Oh, 
for  a  word  to  speak,  to  utter,  and  relieve  my  full  and 
parching  throat  !  I  raised  the  hand — that  fair  and 
milkwhite  hand — I  kissed  and  seared  it  with  my  burn- 
ing tears. 

"  Emma,  Emma  ! "  I  cried,  the  awakened  water- 
drops  still  pouring  down  my  boyish  cheeks,  "  do  you 
love  me  ?     Say  you  do  !     Let  me  hear  you  say  it ! " 

Her  head  fell  upon  my  shoulder,  and  the  beautiful 
black  hair,  released  from  its  imprisonment,  flowed 
loosely  to  her  shoulders.  I  kissed  her  coral  lips. 
"  Tell  me,  Emma,  that  you  love  me.  Say  that  you 
would  give  up  every  thing  for  me.  I  could  die  for 
you.  I  cannot  live  without  you.  Tell  me,  dearest 
Emma,  could  you  be  happy  all  your  days  with  a  poor 
clergyman  for  your  partner  ?  Oh,  I  could  be  steeped 
in  poverty  with  you,  and  still  be  rich  !     Speak,  speak, 


180  CALEB  STUKELY. 

to  me,  dearest  Emma  !  "  She  pressed  my  hand.  I 
was  answered,  and  was  happy. 

How,  upon  our  road  homeward,  we  chatted  about 
flowers  and  birds,  and  every  beauteous  thing  of  hfe  ! 
How  suddenly  unreserved  did  we  become  !  How  very 
much  she  was  pleased  with  objects  that  afforded  me 
delight,  and  how  interesting  to  me  was  every  little 
matter  that  had  a  share  in  her  esteem  !  How  strange, 
how  thrilling,  how  delicious,  was  this  young  excite- 
ment !  How  curious  in  its  effects,  especially  in  driv- 
ing from  my  mind  all  thought  of  "honoured  parents," 
and  from  the  recollection  of  my  Emma  the  little  busi- 
ness that  she  had  to  do  in  Chesterton  ! 

I  had  eaten  nothing  throughout  the  day.  Before 
seeing  Emma,  I  could  as  easily  have  committed  mur- 
der as  swallowed  food.  The  thought  of  it  was  more 
than  sufficient.  The  idea,  however,  lost  much  of  its 
grossness  when,  in  the  evening,  my  appetite,  no  longer 
encumbered  with  the  doubts  and  anxieties,  the  fears 
and  hopes,  of  an  undeclared  passion,  asserted  its 
natural  and  long-established  claims.  I  eat  heartily, 
and  fortified  the  patient  stomach  with  draughts  of 
wine,  that  well  repaid  it  for  its  previous  fast.  Stimu- 
lated to  a  high  degree — my  animal  spirits  within  a 
hair  of  spoiling  my  better  judgment — mercurial  and 
bold,  I  sprang,  at  the  close  of  dinner,  from  my  own 
fireside,  and  flew  to  Temple's  favourite  cottage.  I 
was  engaged  to  take  a  hand  at  the  eternal  whist-table. 
The  three  visitors  and  Temple  were  assembled.    They 


CALEB  STUKELY.  181 

looked,  all  of  them,  awfully  savage.  Temple's  gmi, 
or  eye,  or  hand,  had  failed  him  in  the  morning,  and  he 
and  his  backers  had  lost  considerably.  They  were 
very  spiteful,  and  recriminations  and  sour  bandyings 
passed  amongst  them  with  a  very  faint  reserve.  My 
elation  was  all  the  stronger  for  the  contrast.  Mr 
Roberts,  one  of  the  gentlemen,  the  most  ill-natured 
of  the  lot,  affected  to  believe  that  I  was  laughing 
because  he  was  grave ;  and  more  than  once,  in  address- 
ing me,  he  bordered  on  the  offensive  and  the  personal. 
I  was  in  no  humour  for  quarreling,  and  I  laughed 
the  more.  When  the  men  ceased  to  upbraid  one 
another,  and  had  talked  their  spleen  clean  out,  they 
sat  down  to  their  usual  game,  but  not  with  their 
usual  grace.  After  two  rubbers,  I  cut  in.  I  was  the 
opponent  of  Mr  Roberts,  and  on  this  occasion  I  had 
a  wicked  desire  to  beat  him ;  not  for  the  sake  of  his 
money — I  had  already  parted  freely  with  too  much  of 
my  own  to  have  any  keen  coveting  for  that — it  was 
his  obstinate  peevishness  that  I  thought  to  irritate, 
his  discontented  temper  that  I  wished  to  gall.  I  was 
not  prepared  for  the  advantage  of  attack  which  he 
shortly  offered.  I  played  with  more  than  ordinary 
attention,  or,  more  properly  to  speak,  I  played  loith 
attention.  I  had  never  done  so  until  this  evening, 
nor  should  I  now,  if  my  existing  relation  with  Emma 
had  not  put  me  entirely  at  ease.  I  marked  the  play- 
ing well.  It  was  the  lead  of  Roberts's  partner.  I 
studied  my  own  hand  closely ;  but  in  the  very  act  my 


182 


CALEB  STUKELY. 


eye  was  directed,  I  knew  not  by  what  incitement,  to 
my  adversary's  movements.  Judge  my  surprise  when 
I  beheld  Roberts  secretly  displaying  the  front  of  his 
cards  to  his  partner;  and  making  signs  with  his 
fingers  respecting  them.  He  was  as  cool  and  collected 
as  though  he  could  not  conceive  the  possibility  of 
detection.  He  observed  me,  reversed  the  position  of 
his  cards,  and  said  nothing.  Fired  by  the  wine, 
roused  by  the  fraud,  I  placed  my  cards  upon  the 
table,  and  impeached  him  without  hesitation. 

"  Roberts,"  I  exclaimed,  "  you  are  a  cheat  !  You 
have  robbed  me  of  every  farthing  that  you  have  pre- 
tended to  win." 

Roberts  turned  pale;  but  asked  me  very  quietly 
what  I  meant.  Temple  was  astonished,  and  likewise 
called  upon  me  for  an  explanation.  I  gave  it,  and  he 
received  the  accusation  with  incredulity.  He  would 
not,  he  could  not  believe  it.  I  must  be  mistaken.  I 
was  excited.  I  had  drunk  too  much  wine ;  it  had  got 
the  better  of  me.  He  had  known  Roberts  for  years  ; 
he  was  honour  itself,  and,  more  than  that,  was  one 
of  his — Temple's — dearest  friends.  I  had  made  a 
great  mistake,  and  must  certainly  apologize.  I  was 
sure  that  I  had  made  no  mistake,  and  I  reiterated  the 
charge  more  warmly,  and  with  greater  vehemence. 
The  cards  were  thrown  up,  and  we  all  rose  from  the 
table. 

"  Caleb,"  said  Temple,   "  you  are  very  much   to 
blame.     However,  I  shall  not  permit  either  of  you  to 


CALEB  STUKELY.  183 

leave  this  room  until  the  matter  is  cleared  up.  You 
have  brought  a  serious  charge  against  my  friend. 
You  are  too  hasty,  and  don't  understand  the  usages 
of  society.  This  is  a  shocking  breach  of  good  man- 
ners, and  you  must  learn  to  behave  better,  or  you'll 
get  into  trouble.  I  don't  know  what  strange  delusion 
you  are  labouring  under;  but  I  will  take  my  oath 
that  Roberts  is  as  innocent  of  any  desire  to  cheat  you 
as  I  am.  He  must  have  been  mad  if  he  had  been  so 
barefaced." 

"  Mad,  or  rogue.  Temple,"  I  answered,  nettled  by 
the  partiality  which  he  exhibited  for  Roberts,  "  he 
did  it;  and  I  tell  him  so  to  his  teeth." 

"  You  are  a  liar  !  "  replied  the  unreserved  Roberts. 

"  I  say  this  will  not  do,"  said  Temple,  interposing. 
"  You  shall  not  brawl  here.  Stukely,  I  request  you 
at  once  to  make  an  apology." 

"  Honour  itself  sidled  up  to  me,  manifestly  expect- 
ing my  compliance. 

"  Temple,  I  can't,  I  won't.  The  apology,  if  apo- 
logy could  meet  the  case,  should  come  from  him.  I 
will  swear  to  the  truth  of  what  I  assert,  and  I  will 
not  be  bullied." 

"  Come,  come,  Stukely,"  said  Temple  seriously, 
"  I  shall  not  allow  this  language  ;  we  have  been  good 
friends,  and  I  hope  we  shall  remain  so.  Therefore, 
hold  a  rein  upon  your  tongue.  I  never  permit  strong 
expressions,  even  in  jest.     It  is  difficult  to  draw  a  line 


184  CALEB  STUKELY. 

when  the  bounds  of  propriety  are  broken  down.  You 
understand  me  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  persist,  Temple,  in  beUeving  his 
statement  rather  than  mine  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  persist  in  beheving  your  own  heated 
imagination  in  preference  to  your  cool  reason  ?  Does 
it  stand  to  reason,  that  before  your  very  eyes  he  would 
commit  himself?  Now,  Berry,"  he  said,  turning  to 
Roberts's  partner,  "  you  are  a  gentleman."  (Berry 
blushed.)  "  You  would  not  submit  to  the  disgrace 
of  telling  a  lie.  I  appeal  to  you.  You  must  have 
seen  Roberts  if  he  did  this.  I  call  upon  you,  in  the 
name  of  our  long  friendship,  to  speak  the  truth.  Is 
there  any  foundation  for  this  charge?  Answer  me 
upon  your  honour  as  a  gentleman." 

Berry  blushed  again,  but  not  so  deeply  as  before. 
At  last,  without  blushing  at  all,  he  replied — "  Upon 
my  honour  as  a  gentleman,  Mr  Stukely  is  quite  in  the 
wrong." 

"  There ! "  said  Roberts,  opening  his  eyes  and 
elevating  his  eyebrows  after  the  fashion  of  innocent 
and  injured  individuals. 

"  There  !  "  echoed  Temple,  "  what  would  you  have 


more  r 


V" 


Believing  that  I  could  not  have  less  in  the  way  of 
satisfaction,  I  took  my  hat,  and,  without  another 
word,  made  my  way  to  the  door.  Temple  followed 
me. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  185 

"  Stukely,"  said  he,  "  you  are  not  in  a  condition  to 
be  reasoned  with  to-night." 

"  Temple,"  I  repUed,  "  you  are  mistaken.  I  never 
was  cooler  in  my  life — never  more  sober.  You  will 
find  me  no  easier  to  be  dealt  with,  in  regard  to  this 
business,  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  this  day 
twelvemonth.  I  could  not  be  deceived.  I  saw 
Roberts  communicating  with  Berry,  with  or  without 
Berry's  consent,  for  I  hadn't  time  to  fix  him.  I  have 
always  lost  with  Roberts ;  indeed,  I  have  never  won 
at  your  table — the  reason  why  is  now  clear.  Mind, 
I  accuse  no  one  but  him.  I  have  no  right  to  do  so ; 
but  he  is  a  sneaking  blackguard,  and  I  will  tell  him 
so  again.     Do  I  talk  as  if  I  were  drunk  ?  " 

"  You  certainly  do  not  talk  as  though  you  were 
sober.  You  have  spoken  a  word  or  two,  Stukely, 
that  I  must  call  to  your  memory  to-morrow.  I  am 
certain  that  you  will  be-  too  glad  to  make  every 
reparation  for  the  insult  you  have  offered,  not  only  to 
Roberts,  but,  by  implication,  even  to  me.  I  will  not 
take  advantage  of  you  now.  I  will  speak  to  you  after  a 
night's  sleep,  and  if  you  are  then  prepared  to  tell  the 
same  story,  and  to  take  the  consequences,  rest  assured 
that  no  difficulty  shall  be  put  in  your  way.  Good-night." 

It  was  a  frosty  evening.  There  are  some  thoughts 
that  protect  the  inner  man  from  all  external  chills.. 
Mine  were  not  of  that  character.  Even  the  prominent 
image  of  Emma  receded  before  the  contemplation  of 
a  duel,  or  a  set  of  duels,  into  which  I  beheld  myself  on 

VOL.  I.  Q 


186  CALEB  STUKELY. 

the  point  of  being  trapped.  It  was  no  agreeable 
vista ;  but  I  saw  no  honourable  way  of  escape,  if  the 
alternative  were  forced  upon  me.  One  thing  was 
certain — I  would  be  fooled  no  longer,  whatever  might 
be  the  consequence.  If  it  were  necessary  to  establish 
my  position  at  the  muzzle  of  a  pistol,  better  to  run 
the  risk,  better  be  shot  at  once,  than  have  no  peace 
of  mind — than  be  made  the  butt  and  sport  of  every 
knave  and  trickster.  Emma  would  love  me  surely 
not  the  less  that  I  had  asserted  my  manhood,  and 
maintained  its  rights.  ^Was  it  not  due  to  her  that 
there  should  be  nothing  contemptible  and  cowardly 
in  the  man  whom  she  had  honoured  by  her  choice  ? 

How  quick  is  thought !  Restless  and  mysterious 
operation  !  How  it  leaps  from  pole  to  pole,  and  touches 
in  an  instant  all  the  various  chords  with  which  the 
human  heart  is  strung — eliciting  now  celestial  har- 
mony, and  now  discordant  jangling  notes  of  earth  !  In 
a  moment — oh,  how  well  do  I  remember  it ! — I  had 
reached  my  cottage  gate — in  a  moment  every  high  and 
lofty  fancy  was  disturbed  !  My  mother's  words,  as  she 
sat  at  my  bedside  on  the  last  evening,  rang  in  my  ears, 
and  started  up  a  train  of  bitterest  reflection.  One  true 
friend,  to  have  whispered  one  true  word,  would  have 
drawn  me  from  the  mesh  that  had  entangled  me.  None 
was  near,  and  I  was  left  to  the  protection  of  a  seduced 
conscience.  Maddened  by  the  conviction  of  my  dis- 
loyalty, by  the  view  of  my  true  situation,  which  blazed 
for  a  brief  interval  before  my  reason,  as  if  light  from 


CALEB  STUKELY.  187 

heaven  had  placed  it  there,  the  finest  thread  would 
have  forced  me  back  to  peace  and  happiness — no  sav- 
ing hand  might  help  me.  I  lived  to  learn  that  when 
we  will  betray  ourselves  we  shall,  and  though  the  door 
of  refuge  stands  gaping  in  our  front,  we  rather  turn 
aside,  and,  with  deliberation,  pass  into  perdition. 

As  I  took  my  breakfast  on  the  following  morning, 
revolving  in  my  mind  the  liabilities  of  the  day,  I  was 
disturbed  by  the  arrival  of  a  visitor.  A  young  lady 
entered  my  apartment  at  the  same  instant  that  a  maid- 
servant announced  her.  It  was  Emma — in  great  trouble 
and  distress.  Her  eyes,  red  from  weeping,  were  still 
suffused  with  tears. 

As  soon  as  we  were  left  together,  I  ran  to  her  side. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  I  asked  in  great  alarm. 

"  O,  Mr  Stukely  !  "  replied  the  lady,  indulging  in  a 
fresh  burst  of  tears,  "  what  is  it  you  have  done  ?  You 
have  rendered  me  the  most  miserable  of  women.  Why, 
oh  why,  did  you  call  forth  an  interest  in  this  aching 
heart,  to  surround  and  agitate  it  so  soon  with  terror 
and  alarm  ?  " 

"  Dearest  Miss  Fitzjones,  I  implore  you  to  compose 
yourself.  I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean."  Emma 
W'ould  not  compose  herself,  and  I  was  rendered  very 
uncomfortable. 

"  Mr  Stukely,"  she  continued,  "  do  not  disguise  the 
matter.  I  have  heard  it  all.  You  have  quarrelled  with 
Mr  Roberts,  that  desperate  man,  and  he  has  challenged 
you,  or  is  about  to  challenge  you,  to  fight." 


188  CALEB  STUKKLY. 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do,  Emma  ?  "  I  replied.  "  If 
he  challenges  me,  I  suppose  I  must  meet  him.  I  don't 
know  much  about  these  affairs,  but  I  believe  that  is 
the  usual  course." 

"Do  not  talk  so,  Mr  Stukely.  You  wish  to  break 
my  heart." 

I  seized  her  hand,  and  imprinted  on  it  an  ardent 
kiss,  in  order  to  assure  her  that  I  wished  no  such 
thing. 

"  Believe  me,  dearest,  dearest  Emma,  I  would  lay 
down  my  life  to  serve  you^  Advise  me  in  this  business. 
What  ought  I  to  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  to  dry  those 
tears,  and  make  you  happy  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  quarrel  with  him  ?" 

"  Because  the  rascal  cheated  me." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  it  ?  Is  it  impossible  for  you  to 
have  erred  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  I  see,  Emma.  Your  cousin  has  told  you  that 
I  am  in  the  wrong.  He  did  not  behave  well  to  me  last 
night." 

"  Mr  Stukely,"  said  Emma,  colouring  slightly — 
"  do  not,  I  beseech  you,  call  Mr  Temple  my  cousin 
any  longer." 

"  Has  he  ceased  to  deserve  the  title  ?  "  I  enquired. 

"  Ah  !  Mr  Stukely,  mine  is  a  history  that  would 
move  a  heart  of  stone  to  pity.  One  day  you  may  hear 
it.  You  may  deem  me  then  less  worthy  of  your  love 
— not  less  an  object  of  your  sympathy  and  compas- 
sion." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  189 

"  Miss  Fitzjones,"  I  replied,  moved  by  her  melan- 
choly tone,  "  I  have  read  of  such  cases.  I  can  partly 
guess  your  cause  of  sorrow.  You  have  been  left  to  the 
charge  of  your  relative,  and  you  have  not  experienced 
the  brotherly  affection  which  your  dying  parents  looked 
for  with  confidence  at  his  hands.  Possibly  he  has  dis- 
sipated your  fortune,  your  little  substance.  Ah !  Emma, 
you  do  not  know  me.  You  cannot  know  the  intensity 
of  my  passion,  if  you  deem  that  I  shall  love  you  the 
less  because  I  take  you  penniless.  The  time  may  not 
be  distant  when  a  husband's  love  shall  make  amends 
for  all." 

"  Let  us  change  the  subject,"  said  Emma,  drying 
her  tears.  "  I  wish  to  spare  you  from  these  men.  Are 
you  morally  certain  that  there  was  ground  last  night 
for  your  suspicion  ?  " 

"  I  will  swear  it." 

"  And  will  you  not  retract  your  words?" 

"  No,  Emma — not  until  you  bid  me." 

"  Then,  dear  Mr  Stukely,  I  do  bid  and  entreat  you. 
You  must  not  run  into  this  dreadful  danger.  You 
might  have  been — I  do  not  say  you  were — mistaken. 
Is  it  right  to  sacrifice  a  life  upon  such  a  doubt  ?  And 
a  life  will  be  sacrificed — for  Roberts  and  all  those  men 
are  deadly  shots.  If  he  were  to  kill  you — if  blood  " 

Tlie  lady  could  not  proceed.  Her  apprehension 
dissolved  in  tears — and  her  tears  choked  her  utterance. 
She  sobbed  in  my  arms. 

*'  Dearest  maiden,"  I  exclaimed,  whilst  I  pressed 


190  CALEB  STUKELY. 

her  to  my  bosom,  "  let  me  be  worthy  of  this  noble 
heart ! " 

And  then  the  door  slammed  open — and  James  Tem- 
ple rushed  in — his  face  pale,  his  lips  frothy  with  rage. 

He  cried  out,  running  up  to  me  at  the  same  time, 
with  his  fists  clenched.  "  Accursed  betrayer !  Double, 
double  villain  ! " 

I  held  the  furious  man  at  arm's  length,  and  Emma 
Fitzjones  screamed  out  and  fainted. 

"  What  do  you  mean.  Temple  ?  "  I  asked  in  great 
affright. 

"  What !  "  answered  he.  "  What !  do  you  ask  me 
what  ?  Look  at  the  partner  of  your  guilt.  Is  this 
your  boasted  friendship  ?  This  your  honour  ?  This 
your  simple-mindedness  ?  Oh  !  what  an  adder  have  I 
nourished  in  my  bosom  !  " 

"  Temple,  be  not  mistaken.  It  will  be  well  with 
you  if  your  conscience  stands  as  free  as  mine  is  now  in 
all  that  touches  that  young  lady.  Look  into  your 
heart.  Ask  it  how  it  has  performed  the  duties  that 
your  relationship,  your  tie  of  blood  imposed  upon  you? 
Whence  do  those  tears  flow  but  from  your  neglect — 
her  cousin's  cruelty  ?  " 

The  lady  recovered — raised  herself  from  the  chair 
— tottered  across  the  room,  and  vanished. 

"  Why  is  she  here,  you  smooth-faced  hypocrite  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  bound  to  answer  that.  I  am  no  hypo- 
crite. In  due  time,  I  should  have  told  you  all.  My 
purpose  was  honourable — I  have  no  reason  to  blush 


CALEB  STUKELY.  191 

for  the  feelings  which  I  this  moment  entertain  for  your 
fair  cousin." 

"  My  fair  cousin  ?  Stukely,  you  play  your  part 
naturally,  and  yet  not  well  enough.  You  cannot  im- 
pose upon  me  by  this  deep  game.  My  fair  cousin  ! 
Cousin  !  oh,  most  plausible  villain  ! " 

"  Yes,  cousin ;  is  she  not  ?  " 

"  No  man,  Stukely,  unless  he  were  lost  to  all  prin- 
ciple and  manly  feeling,  would  stoop  to  this  behaviour. 
I  ask  you  one  question.  Would  you  have  me  think 
you  an  ass,  an  idiot,  a  dolt,  a  fool?  Are  you  a  child 
in  leading-strings  ?  What  are  you  ?  My  cousin  I 
Oh  !  you  are  very  simple,  or  very  keen." 

"  Is  she  not  your  cousin  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  roared  Temple,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"  Why  have  you  led  me  to  believe,  then,  that  she 
was  ?     Why  have  you  called  her  cousin  ?  " 

"  No,  Stukely,  this  will  not  do.  It  is  very  con- 
venient to  be  thought  a  greenhorn  at  times ;  but  you 
may  presume  upon  your  credit,  and  then  the  trick 
smells.  A  boy  of  twelve  years  would  have  no  excuse 
for  shutting  his  eyes  against  conviction.  The  fact 
stared  you  in  the  face.  You  have  known — it  is  use- 
less for  you  to  deny  it — you  have  had  a  hundred  op- 
portunities of  remarking  the  delicate  connexion  that 
existed  between  that  lady  and  myself.  You  have  taken 
advantage  of  our  intimacy  to  seduce  her  affections. 
You  have  poisoned  her  mind.  You  have  violated  the 
rights  of  hospitality.     I  received  you  as  a  friend  and 


192  CALEB  STUKELY. 

a  brother — you  have  repaid  me  like  a  midnight  as- 
sassin." 

I  was  about  to  reply,  but  he  stopped  me. 

**  I  want  no  explanation — no  words.  There  are 
offences  so  black,  so  heinous,  that  no  satisfaction  can 
meet  them.  I  ask  no  satisfaction.  You  are  below 
my  consideration.  Had  the  lady  been  my  wife  1  would 
have  winged  you.  In  that  case  I  would  have  honoured 
you  with  a  bullet.  I  will  not  now  enable  you  to  be 
called  a  gentleman  by  placing  myself  in  the  condition 
of  your  adversary.  I  repjidiate  and  scorn  you.  Take 
the  lady,  and  may  she  find  in  you  a  warm  and  faithful 
friend."  He  paused  for  a  second,  and  then  continued — 

"  One  word  more  before  I  leave  your  hateful  pre- 
sence. I  came  on  Roberts's  business.  After  what 
has  happened,  I  promise  you  that  he  will  treat  your 
paltry  accusation  with  all  the  seriousness  it  merits. 
Both  it  and  you  he  thoroughly  despises.  There  is  but 
one  step  more  in  baseness  and  depravity.  Take  it, 
and  crown  your  villany.  Desert  and  throw  upon  the 
world  the  poor  and  credulous  object  of  your  designs. 
You  have  ripened  the  seeds  of  corruption  in  her  heart 
— laugh  at  her — turn  her  adrift — and  let  her  reap  the 
fruit  in  misery  and  prostitution." 

Mr  Temple  said  no  more.  He  departed:  and  I 
stood  horrified  and  aghast.  A  cold  perspiration  hung 
about  me,  and  the  earth  seemed  rapidly  to  sink.  1 
])aced  the  room  to  save  myself  from  falling. 

I  repeated  his  words — oh,  what  dreadful  words  to 


CALEB  STUKELY.  ]  93 

use  to  me  !  Surely,  surely,  I  did  not  deserve  them  !  I 
endeavoured  to  gather  together  all  the  past.  I  vowed, 
if  I  could  discover  any  thing  to  justify  this  terrible 
abuse,  he  should  have  the  benefit  of  that  discovery ; 
and  I  would  on  my  knees  demand  permission  to  explain 
away  his  false  suspicions.  If  not,  I  felt  I  could  not 
bear  to  live  without  some  satisfaction  for  this  tremen- 
dous insult. 

"  What  opportunities  have  I  had,"  I  asked  myself, 
"  to  notice  this  accursed  connexion  ?  None — -no,  not 
one."  But  I  remembered,  all  at  once,  the  smiles  and 
half  expressions  which  had  escaped  him  when  he  men- 
tioned Emma's  name,  or  referred  in  an  especial  manner 
to  his  cousin.  These  hints,  which  I  had  invariably 
taken  as  flattering  intimations  of  her  regard  for  me, 
were  evidently  intended  to  warn  me  of  her  character. 
Other  little  matters — trifling,  scarcely  worth  noticing 
— corroborated  this  idea  as  soon  as  the  idea  was  started 
— and  I  was  carried  to  the  verge  of  madness.  I  could 
not  reproach  Temple.  I  pitied  him — and  cursed  myself. 
I  had  indeed  been  a  child,  a  fool,  an  idiot,  it  was  too 
true  ;  but  no  villain — no  betrayer.  Blinded  I  had  been 
by  passion — ignorant  beyond  excuse  ;  but  I  was  free, 
thank  God,  from  criminal  attaint !  In  the  broad  day 
I  could  assert  and  prove  my  innocence.  What  should 
prevent  me  ?  Spurred  by  the  consciousness  of 
unstained  integrity,  I  rushed  from  my  dwelling  to 
Temple's  cottage.     I  reached  it  quickly— the  dese- 

VOL.  I.  R 


194  CALEB  STUKELY. 

crated  temple — alas,  how  different  did  it  look  ! 
Robbed  of  its  beauty  by  some  fell  enchantment !  My 
heart  failed  me  as  my  trembling  foot  ascended  the 
accustomed  stair.  Should  she  be  there  ?  I  could  not 
look  upon  her  with  an  unkind  eye — I  could  not  meet 
her  with  an  unblushing  cheek  !  Stung  and  embold- 
ened by  Temple's  hideous  charge — I  crushed  my  fears, 
and  every  thought  of  tenderness — and  walked  boldly 
on.  I  entered  the  apartment ;  and  there  alone,  weep- 
ing bitterly,  sat  Emma.  I  glanced  around  for  Temple, 
then  hesitated — stopped.  What  should  I  do  ?  She 
did  not  raise  her  eyes — she  knew  that  I  was  present — 
her  sobs  grew  louder.  My  heart  pleaded  wildly  for 
the  helpless  woman,  and  I  could  not  reason  with  that 
treacherous  heart.  It  softened  and  subdued  me.  Oh, 
I  loved  her  still — passionately,  dearly  loved  her — loved 
as  I  could  never  love  again  ! 

"  Emma,"  I  said,  "  tell  me,  where  is  Temple  ?  " 

"  Gone  ! "  she  replied,  without  moving.  "  Gone  for 
ever ! " 

"  What,  left  the  university?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered — her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the 
earth. 

"  Emma," — I  exclaimed,  with  an  instinct  of  alarm 
— "  May  God  bless  you,  and  forgive  me.  Fare- 
well ! " 

I  had  summoned  resolution  to  be  virtuous.  I  de- 
parted.    As  I  descended,  I  heard  a  loud  and  fearful 


CALEB  STUKELY.  19-5 

woman's  scream,  and  at  the  same  time  a  heavy  fall — I 
ran  back  with  the  greatest  speed.  The  poor  girl  had 
fainted.  I  raised  her  from  the  ground — she  breathed 
hard — and  bled  profusely  from  a  wound  she  had  re- 
ceived in  falling.  She  was  once  more  in  my  quivering 
arms  ! 


X9G  CALEB  STUKELY. 


PART    IV. 


riRST  LOVE. 


Let  wealth,  let  honour,  wait  the  wedded  dame, 
August  her  deed,  and  sacred  he  her  fame ; 
Before  true  passion  all  those  views  remove ; 
Fame,  wealth,  and  honour  I  what  are  you  to  love  ? 

•  *•••• 

Oh,  happy  state !  when  souls  each  other  draw, 
When  love  is  liberty,  and  nature,  law. 

Pope. 

Once  upon  the  inclined  road  of  error,  and  there  is 
no  swiftness  so  tremendous  as  that  with  which  we  dash 
adown  the  plane,  no  insensibility  so  obstinate  as  that 
w^hich  fastens  on  us  through  the  quick  descent.  The 
start  once  made,  and  there  is  neither  stopping  nor 
waking  until  the  last  and  lowest  depth  is  sounded. 
Our  natural  fears  and  promptings  become  hushed 
with  the  first  impetus,  and  we  are  lost  to  every  thing 
but  the  delusive  tones  of  sin,  which  only  cheat  the 
senses  and  make  our  misery  harmonious.  Farewell 
all  opportunities  of  escape — the  strivings  of  conscience 

. the  faithful  whisperings  of  shame,  which  served  us 

even  as  we  stood  trembling  at  the  fatal  point !     Fare- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  197 

well  the  holy  power  of  virtue,  which  made  foul  things 
look  hideous,  and  good  things  lovely,  and  kept  a  guard 
about  our  hearts  to  welcome  beauty  and  frighten  off 
deformity  !  Farewell  integrity — joy — rest — and  hap- 
piness ! 

I  commence  this  period  of  my  history  with  the 
avowal  that  Emma  Fitzjones  became  my  acknowledged 
mistress — I,  Caleb  Stukely,  that  lady's  acknowledged 
protector.  I  was  conquered  by  her  direct  appeals  and 
my  own  oblique  notions  of  justice.  Could  I  desert 
the  unfortunate  being  who  had  become  a  castaway 
through  my  blindness  and  passionate  importunity ;  who 
had  gladly  sacrificed  home  and  subsistence  when  she 
responded  to  the  ardent  affection  which  I  had  poured 
into  her  womanish  and  sensitive  heart  ?  These  ques- 
tions, differently  expressed  perhaps,  she  asked  wildly 
and  imploringly,  when,  more  than  once,  I  tore  myself 
in  sad  confusion  and  perplexity  from  her  fascinating 
presence.  Then  the  prophecy  of  Temple,  that  I 
should  throw  the  erring  Emma  upon  a  cruel  world, 
tingled  in  my  ears,  not  the  less  dreadfully  in  conse- 
quence of  a  threat  of  self-destruction  which  she  calmly 
uttered,  and  whose  fulfilment  she  bade  me  instantly 
expect,  if  I  deserted  her.  She  clung  to  me,  hung  upon 
my  arm,  and,  looking  up,  pierced  me  with  her  full 
black  eye.  I  could  not  conceal  from  her  that  it  was 
difficult  to  disobey  the  natural  wishes  of  a  young  and 
beating  heart.  But  then  the  guilt !  Alas,  alas  !  the 
sense  of  guilt  was  fee'd  and  bribed  away  almost  before 


108  CALEB  STUKELY. 

it  rose  against  me.  Emma  accompanied  me  to  the 
farm-house. 

He  who  is  delighted  with  "  small  profit  and  quick 
returns,''  will  assuredly  find  his  account  in  the  pursuit 
of  unlawful  pleasure.  We  had  lived  together  in  our 
snug  but  guilty  habitation  for  about  twenty-four  hours, 
when  the  immediate  consequences  of  my  rash  step 
were  brought  boldly  before  us.  It  was  evening  ;  a  cold 
and  cheerless  one.  The  snow  was  falling  heavily 
without,  and  our  chairs  were  drawn  close  to  the  com- 
fortable fire.  Bewildered  as  I  was  by  the  strangeness 
of  my  new  character,  I  was  yet  proud  of  my  posses- 
sion. Her  beautiful  black  eyes  still  dwelt  upon  me 
with  a  fond  expression,  and  she  smiled  bewitchingly 
as  she  patted  my  hand,  now  held  conlfidently  in  her 
own.  The  susceptible  mind  ever  contrasts  the  exter- 
nal inclemency  with  its  own  merciful  enjoyments. 
The  snow  dropped  in  large  flakes  against  the  window, 
and  I  spoke  with  lively  gratitude. 

"  How  thankful  we  ought  to  be,  dear  Emma,  for 
being  housed  on  such  a  night  as  this  !  Many  a  poor 
deserving  creature  is  without  a  roof  to-night,  to  shelter 
him  from  the  pelting  snow  !  This  cheerful  fire,  too  ! 
What  a  blessed  thing  it  is,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  indeed,"  said  she,  drawing  her  chair  still 
nearer  to  mine,  and  snuggling  very  close. 

'«  I  never  can  look  upon  wintry  weather,  Emma, 
without  a  dread  of  losing  all  my  friends.  It  is  very 
strange,  but  it  has  always  been  so,  and  I  cannot  help 


CALEB  STURELY.  199 

it.  I  do  not  know  how  other  persons  feel ;  but  on  a 
dreary  snowy  day  like  this,  I  fairly  tremble  with  the 
fear  of  being  left  at  last  desolate  and  friendless  in  the 
world.  We  seem  to  want  more  sympathy  from  one 
another  when  the  elements  become  our  enemies." 

"  But  is  it  not  the  same  in  summer  ?  " 

"  No,  dear.  Love  abounds  in  summer.  A  thou- 
sand voices  speak  to  us  beneath  a  summer  sky.  All 
things  cheer  and  animate  us.  In  the  midst  of  so 
much  life,  I  could  live  alone,  at  least  I  think  so  now, 
blithe,  social,  and  contented,  without  one  human 
friend." 

"  What !  without  one  ?  "  asked  Emma,  archly  look- 
ing up,  touching  my  cheek  in  playfulness. 

"  Did  I  say  without  one  ?  I  meant  loith  one — one 
only,  Emma." 

But  the  tenderest  dalliance,  even  on  a  winter's 
evening,  and  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  will  not  supply  the 
place  of  tea.     I  rang  the  bell,  and  then  we  chatted  on. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  the  cottage,  Emma  ?  You 
will  make  the  old  rooms  look  very  pretty,  will  you  not  ? 
How  these  neat  flower-pots  charmed  me  when  I  first 
saw  them  !     Ah  me  !  " 

"  Did  you  really  like  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  exceedingly !  You  will  teach  me  to  make 
them,  and  I  shall  be  an  apt  scholar."  And  then  I 
pulled  the  bell  again. 

"  You  will  find  the  people  here,  my  dear  Emma, 
most  attentive  and  kind.     Mrs  Bates  is  such  a  simple- 


200  CALEB  STUKELY. 

minded,  motherly  person  !  It  is  quite  an  amusement 
to  listen  to  her  quaint  manner.  She  will  make  you 
very  happy,  I  am  sure.  We  shall  both  be  very  happy 
■ — always — shall  we  not  ?  " 

"  If  you  cease  to  love  me,  Caleb,  shall  I  be  happy 
then?" 

"  Oh,  bless  you,  that  can  never  be  ! "  and  I  kissed 
her  hand  to  convince  her  of  the  impossibility.  "  Do 
you  believe,  Emma,  that  lovers  are  born  for  one  an- 
other, or  that  they  come  together  by  chance  ?  " 

"  I  believe  that  it  is  not  possible  to  determine." 

"  It  would  be  a  great  satisfaction,  though,  if  we 
knew  we  couldn't  help  ourselves.  Nobody  could  blame 
us  then" 

Emma  sighed,  and  trifled  with  the  corners  of  her 
handkerchief.  I  stopped  short,  and  pulled  the  bell 
again  with  great  rapidity. 

"  Dear  me  !     Why  don't  they  answer  ?  " 

I  was  very  soon  answered.  After  a  short  interval 
I  pulled  the  rope  more  violently  than  ever,  and, 
whilst  the  bell  was  still  sounding,  Mrs  Bates  herself 
walked  in. 

"  Why,  Mrs  Bates,"  said  I,  with  a  familiar  smile, 
offered  as  a  set-off"  to  the  clamorous  ringing,  "  I  thought 
you  were  all  dead." 

The  expression  of  Mrs  Bates's  countenance  was  any 
thing  but  simple  or  maternal.  She  had  evidently 
walked  in  wound  up  for  mischief.  I  gathered  as  much 
at  a  glance.     She  stood  at  the  door,  and  holding  the 


CALEB  STUKELT.  201 

handle  for  protection  or  support,  there  waited  my 
commands  with  a  frowning  silence.  I  tried  the  sooth- 
ing system. 

"  Won't  you  walk  in,  Mr  Bates  ?  " 

"  Mr  Stukely,"  replied  the  landlady  without  any 
further  hesitation,  ''  you  will  please  to  leave  my  house 
to-morrow  morning.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,  you  ought,  you  wicked  man ;  for  you  are  a 
man,  and  no  gentleman,  I  can  tell  you." 

I  began  to  perspire  again.  Here  was  the  old  story. 
Every  body  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  insult  me.  I 
was  contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  the  lowest.  Scarcely 
could  I  recover  from  one  assault  before  another 
knocked  me  down  again.  There  was  no  repose.  What 
must  Emma  think  ?  and  what  could  I  say  in  reply  ta 
this  attack  but 

"  Mrs  Bates,  you  forget  yourself." 

"  I  w  onder  you  don't  blush,  Mr  Stukely,"  continued 
the  woman,  "  for  treating  a  widow  in  this  way.  I  have 
children  of  my  own,  sir." 

"  Yes,  Mrs  Bates,  I  am  aware  of  it,  two  very  amiable 
little  girls." 

"  And  a  pretty  example  you  are  setting  them,  too, 
by  bringing  that  creature  into  the  house  !  The  owda- 
cious,  impudent  hussy  !     Oh,  you  woman  ! " 

"  Mrs  Bates,"  I  said,  feeling  very  dry  in  the 
mouth,  and  getting  flurried,  "  what  do  you  mean  by 
woman  ?  " 

"  A  pretty  pair  you  are,"  proceeded  the  artless  Mrs 


202  CALEB  STUIvELY. 

Bates,  "  to  ring  a  virtuous  woman's  bell  in  this  fashion. 
Nobody  answers  it  here,  I  can  assure  you.  For  twenty 
years  I  have  let  lodgings,  and  all  that  time  I  have 
trusted  in  the  Lord,  and  never  did  such  a  thing  as  this 
happen  to  me.  As  true  as  I  am  here,  if  it  didn't  snow 
as  it  does,  you  should  both  of  you  pack  this  blessed 
night.  It  was  well  for  you,  ma'am,  I  wasn't  at  home 
yesterday  when  you  arrived,  for  I  would  have  slapped 
the  door  in  your  face,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Bates. 
You  nasty  sluts  are  the  cause  of  half  the  misery  in  the 
world.  I'd  give  something  to  know  how  many  men 
you  have  brought  to  the  dogs  before  you  took  up  with 
this  poor  young  man." 

Emma  raised  herself  from  the  chair,  and  her  eyes 
flashed  fire.  She  attempted  to  speak,  but  she  sat 
down  again,  and  fell  a-weeping. 

"  Mrs  Bates,"  said  I,  ready  to  cry  myself,  "  I'll 
thank  you  for  my  little  bill." 

"  Ah,  you  may  cry,"  she  continued,  still  addressing 
Emma,  "  you  are,  all  of  you,  ready  enough  to  do  that. 
It  is  I  who  ought  to  cry,  to  think  that  my  house 
should  be  turned  into  a  French  caravansary !  If  I 
knew  where  your  mother  lived,  as  sure  as  your  name's 
Stukely,  she  should  hear  what  kind  of  company  you 
have  taken  to.  This  is  the  second  and  last  night  that 
either  of  you  sleep  under  this  roof,  and  if  you  don't 
think  proper  to  budge,  we'll  see  what  they  can  do  at 
your  college  to  make  you.  Yes,  you  deceitful  crying 
cretur,  you  sha'n't  go  on  with  none  of  your  wicked- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  203 

ness  here.  Why  don't  you  go  to  service  like  an  honest 
woman,  and  work  for  your  bread  as  you  ought  ?  " 

Emma  shook  her  head,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  in 
agony. 

"  You  needn't  nod  your  dickey  at  me,  ma'am.  It 
would  be  much  more  becoming  if  you  cut  them  flaunt- 
ing curls  off.  But  that  wouldn't  do  for  your  victims, 
I  reckon.  It's  all  very  fine  for  you  to  dress  up  and 
strut  about  in  silks  and  satins,  but  you'll  find  nobody 
here  to  dance  after  your  tail.  My  daughters  are 
members  of  a  congregation,  and  I  should  like  to  catch 
e'er  a  one  of  'em  demeaning  themselves  with  a  strum- 
pet. Whatever  you  want  to-night,  you'll  just  get  for 
yourselves,  mind  that,  and  the  minute  you  have  had 
your  breakfast  to-morrow,  march  is  the  word.  Cry  ! 
Yes,  cry  yourself  honest  and  virtuous,  and  you'll  do 
yourself  some  good." 

And  so  saying,  Mrs  Bates  walked  off*,  slamming  the 
door,  and  mumbling  as  she  went  about  the  uselessness 
of  communicating  with  her  any  longer  by  means  of 
the  bell.  I  could  say  nothing  to  any  good  purpose, 
and  therefore  held  my  tongue.  Emma  rose,  and  drying 
her  tears,  said,  in  a  convulsive  whisper, 

"  Let  us  leave  this  house  at  once." 

"  No,  no,"  I  answered,  "  we  can't  to-night,  dear 
Emma  —  it's  out  of  the  question.  Wait  patiently 
until  to-morrow,  and  I'll  easily  get  lodgings  elsewhere. 
What  could  we  do  in  such  a  night  as  this?  Hark  at 
the  wind  ! " 


204  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  Do  you  hate  me,  Stukely  ?  " 

"  Oh !  Emma,  don't  madden  me  by  asking  the 
question.  What  a  horrible  person  that  Mrs  Bates  is  ! 
How  I  have  mistaken  her  character  !  Don't  be  un- 
happy, there's  a  dear  creature.  Think  of  something 
else.  This  is  certainly  very  unfortunate.  Dear  me  ! 
But  you  must  have  your  tea;  that  will  refresh  you." 
[I  was  about  to  ring  the  bell  again.]  "  Oh,  that's  of 
no  use  !  Stay.  I'll  go  down-stairs  myself;"  and  so 
I  did.  I  proceeded  to  the  kitchen,  where  sat  Mistress 
Bates,  the  servant,  and  the  two  daughters,  members 
of  a  congregation.  I  entered  it  unassumingly  enough, 
but  the  moment  I  appeared,  Mrs  Bates,  who  was 
heading  aloud  to  the  rest,  closed  her  book,  turned  her 
face  to  the  fire,  and  her  back  upon  me.  The  others 
followed  her  example.  I  walked  like  an  outcast  to 
the  grate,  took  my  kettle,  and  carried  it  into  the  par- 
lour. I  returned,  got  possession  of  a  teaboard,  filled  it 
with  the  implements  of  tea,  and  departed  as  modestly 
as  before.  As  I  ascended  the  stairs  my  ear  was 
arrested  by  the  voice  of  Mrs  Bates.  She  had  opened 
the  book  again.  I  caught  her  first  words — ''And 
behold  there  met  him  a  ivoman  in  the  attire  of  an  harlot, 
and  subtle  of  heart.'^     I  waited  for  no  more. 

Cheerless  and  sad  was  the  remainder  of  this  evening. 
We  referred  little  to  Mrs  Bates,  and  not  at  all  to  the 
native  eloquence  which  she  had  displayed;  but  the 
latter  had  left  upon  us  both  a  miserable  weight,  diffi- 
cult indeed  to  throw  away.     In  battles  of  the  tongue, 


CALEB  STUKELY.  205 

what  an  advantage  does  virtue  give  the  combatant,  or 
the  known  want  of  it  in  his  opponent.  Weak  in  all 
other  things,  let  him  be  strong  in  this,  and  wealth, 
honours,  knowledge,  worldly  condition,  all  yield  to  him 
in  the  conflict.  They  bend,  succumb,  and  bow  in 
spite,  and  by  the  very  power  of  the  sign  he  carries  in 
his  front.  How  had  this  vulgar  woman  crushed  and 
humbled  us  !  How  had  she  hurled  us  from  our  social 
seat  into  the  depths  beneath  her,  and  how  she  spurned 
us  as  she  trode  us  down  !  And  what  resistance  could 
we  make  ?  What  could  we  do,  conscious  of  the  loss  of 
our  best  security  ?  No  longer  erect,  but  crouching  and 
trembling  with  the  perception  of  our  moral  nakedness, 
what  could  we  do  but  be  ashamed,  submit,  and  bear 
with  blushes  and  in  silence  ?  True  to  my  pitiful  idio- 
syncrasy, in  this  instance,  as  in  all  others  of  the  like 
nature,  I  was  moved  to  sorrow  and  self-reproach,  not 
so  much  on  account  of  my  delinquency  as  for  the 
exposure  and  insult  to  which  I  had  been  so  mercilessly 
subjected.  This  was  the  gnawing  worm,  compared 
with  which  the  sin  itself  slept  in  my  bosom  harmless. 
Wretched  as  I  felt,  I  tried  hard  to  rouse  Emma,  and 
to  draw  her  thoughts  from  the  disagreeable  event  over 
which  they  still  brooded — but  with  little  success ;  and 
no  wonder.  The  soul  must  be  at  rest  itself  before  it 
can  communicate  true  peace  to  others.  The  night 
grew  more  and  more  boisterous.  The  gusty  wind 
came  rushing  and  moaning,  carrying  in  its  teeth  hail, 
rain,  and  sleet,  which  it  flung  against  the  casement, 


206  CALEB  STUKELY. 

and  then  went  howling  onward.  There  was  a  grum- 
bling in  the  chimney,  and  we  sat  silently  listening  to 
it,  whilst  our  candles  burned  unsnufFed  and  dismally. 
The  fire  itself,  that  had  blazed  and  scolded  with  a 
true  English  energy  at  the  beginning  of  the  evening, 
sickened  at  length,  and  would  not  be  revived  by  any 
means.  The  foodful  coals  turned  into  poison — and 
destroyed  it.  And  so  closed  upon  us  the  first  day  of 
love's  young  dream  ! 

Emma  had  indeed  received  a  shock,  but  I  pitied 
and  loved  her  the  more  for  the  insults  she  had  borne. 
She  retired  to  rest,  and  it  was  long  before  she  ceased 
to  sob,  and  was  able  to  forget  in  sleep  the  smarting 
wound  that  rankled  in  her  heart.  With  what  heroic 
madness,  what  insane  enthusiasm  did  I  look  upon  her 
face,  and  vow  to  cherish  and  uphold  her,  to  render 
her  full  compensation  for  the  contempt  and  insolence 
she  had  so  meekly  suffered  I  Lovelier  she  appeared 
than  ever — her  marble  bosom  swelling  and  falling 
with  a  tremulous  measure,  her  moistened  eyelid 
opened  by  a  labouring  tear.  Here  was  a  shrine,  in- 
deed, to  meet  the  poet's  and  the  sculptor's  fancy. 
Who,  as  the  spirit  slumbered,  could  aver  that  sacrilege 
had  torn  away  the  idol,  and  left  its  mortal  case  worth- 
less and  profaned?  My  own  uneasy  mind  was  too 
much  agitated  with  the  business  of  the  coming  mor- 
row, to  admit  the  entreaties  of  tired  nature,  or  to  wish 
for  the  deceitful  and  temporary  repose  that  sleep 
could  at  the  best  afford.     "  Now  that  Emma  rests,"  I 


CALEB  STUKELY.  207 

thought,  "  is  the  time  to  scheme,  to  look  resolutely  at 
the  approaching  enemy,  and  to  prepare  against  him. 

When  we  are  turned  out  to-morrow,  whither  shall  we 

« 

go?"  I  had  flattered  Emma  with  the  idea  of  obtaining 
lodgings  in  the  morning  without  trouble  or  delay.    In 
my  cooler  moments  I  felt  how  valueless  was  such  a 
hope.     The  people  in  the  town  must  receive  us,  if  at 
all,  in  secret,  and  at  their  peril.     Their  ruin  would  be 
the  consequence  of  a  discovery.     Why  should  they 
stake  so  much  for  me  ?  It  was  absurd  to  ask  it.  Then, 
no  doubt,  they  were  all,  like  Mrs  Bates,  strictly  correct 
and  pious,  and  would  be  scandalized  at  conduct  which 
circumstances  had  not  only  vindicated  in  my  judg- 
ment, but  had  rendered  absolutely  magnanimous  and 
worthy  of  commendation.     My  plan  must  be  to  fix 
myself,  for  a  time  at  least,  away  from  Cambridge,  in 
some  small  town  safe  from  university  control,  where 
possibly   I  might   find  a   standard   of  morahty  less 
unpliant  and  severe  than  that  which  dogmatized  at 
home.     What  should  prevent  this  very  needful  step  ? 
Ah,  here  came  down  the  thick  and  troublous  clouds, 
shutting  out  the  fair  and  purple  distance  !     What 
could  prevent  it  but  one  hard  impediment,  combining, 
swallowing  up  in  one,  all  other  hindrances — an  awful 
want  of  WHEREWITHAL,  that  world's  monster  whom 
we  struggle  to  possess,  and,  when  possessed,  so  many 
struggle  to  cast  off*  again  —  that  sweet  companion, 
whose  melting  look  no  mortal  being  can  withstand, 
whose  bright  presence  opens  all  avenues  to  pleasant 


208  CALEB  STUKELY. 

places,  and  whose  glitter  reflects  a  lustre  upon  the 
dullest — that  touchstone  that  tests  the  worth  of  women 
and  of  angels — that  quintessence  and  elixir  whose 
drops  of  virtue  transform  the  beggar  to  a  prince,  the 
ignorant  to  the  supremely  wise,  the  vagabond  and  the 
despised  to  the  welcomed  and  the  well-beloved  !  This 
gigantic  power  I  needed  now,  needed  before  I  could 
progress  an  inch.  I  had  parted  so  freely  and  care- 
lessly with  my  cash  in  Temple's  rooms,  that  notwith- 
standing my  father's  liberal  supply,  I  was  left,  with  my 
increased  expenditure  and  the  new  claims  upon  my 
purse,  almost  penniless.  If  turned  into  the  street — and 
could  I  flatter  myself  that  we  should  not  be  ? — I  might, 
with  care  and  pinching,  provide  for  seven  days'  meat  and 

drink further  than  this  I  could  not  go.     The  oftener 

I  revolved  this  serious  predicament,  which  every  pass- 
ing hour  rendered  more  alarming,  the  more  nervous  and 
thirsty  did  I  become,  the  more  stupid  and  puzzled  as 
to  the  mode  of  extrication.  Apply  to  my  parents  again 
I  could  not.  I  had  already  received  a  sum  consider- 
ably in  advance  of  my  stipulated  allowance.  Had  this 
not  been  the  case,  since  my  association  w  ith  Emma  all 
desire  of  communicating  with  my  home  had  entirely 
vanished.  At  the  beginning  of  our  intimacy,  my 
thoughts  would  wander  thither  in  spite  of  every  effort 
to  control  and  keep  them  back ;  but  very  soon,  with 
their  own  free-will,  they  ceased  to  feed  upon  a  pasture 
so  noxious  and  unkindly.  What  but  bitterness  could 
the  contemplation  of  that  once-cherished  home  now 


CALEB  STUKELY.  209 

yield  ?  I  turned  away  from  it,  grateful  perhaps  that  I 
could  do  so  without  a  scruple  or  a  pang.  But  what  was 
to  be  done  for  money  ?  At  the  end  of  one  short  week  I 
must  explain  to  Emma  my  poverty,  my  state  of  bank- 
ruptcy. I  would  perish  rather  than  make  the  morti- 
fying revelation.  What,  indeed,  would  she  then  think 
of  the  selfish  upstart  who  had  reduced  her  so  rapidly 
from  affluence  to  want !  I  planned  and  thought,  and 
pondered  and  designee',  and  turned  in  bed  and  sighed, 
and  drank  great  draughts  of  water  to  appease  my 
fevered  throat ;  but  at  the  second  hour  of  the  morning, 
a  rude  and  undigested  heap  of  schemes  floated  along 
my  brain  only  to  annoy  and  plague  me  with  their  crude 
improbabilities.  At  last  and  suddenly  a  cold  sweat 
and  a  giddiness  came  over  me,  such  as  I  imagine  the 
culprit  may  experience  upon  the  eve  of  execution,  when 
in  the  dark  and  lonely  night  he  works  himself  to  frenzy 
in  the  attempt  to  realize  his  horrible  condition.  What 
principality  or  power  of  darkness  at  this  fearful  moment 
brought  to  my  view  a  face  and  form  seen  but  twice 
before,  and  yet,  once  seen,  never  to  be  forgotten,  I 
cannot  tell.  The  occult  relations  of  the  invisible  spirits 
of  air  with  our  poor  senses,  leave  to  us  only  facts  to 
certify  of  their  existence,  no  clue  to  trace  them  out. 
When  every  hope  was  gone,  and  every  door  seemed 
closed  against  me,  when  I  sank  sickened  with  the 
weight  of  thickening  apprehensions  —  then,  at  this 
moment,  did  the  acceptable  and  dirty  face  of  Mr 
Solomon  Levy  dance  before  my  eyes,  and  bid  me  raise 

VOL.  I.  s 


210  CALEB  STUICELY. 

my  head  and  flee  to  him  for  succour.  Oh  !  never  had 
a  clean  face  looked  so  touching  and  compassionate  ! 
Never  had  beauty  borne  so  tender  and  so  kind  a  brow ! 
The  mouth,  it  promised  help  as  plain  as  mouth  could 
speak.  The  eye,  it  winked  in  pity,  as  no  eye  but  his 
could  wink,  and  every  wrinkle  of  that  olive  cheek 
twitched  with  spasmodic  sympathy.  I  caught  at  the 
nocturnal  vision  with  the  wild  clutching  of  a  drowning 
man.  I  could  not  question  the  wisdom  of  the  good 
Providence  that  had  vouchsafed  it  for  my  consolation 
and  support,  and  I  vowed  to  profit  by  the  visitation. 
Resolving  to  visit  my  ancient  friend  at  the  first  con- 
venient hour  of  day,  and  to  put  to  trial  the  sincerity 
of  his  early  protestations,  by  imploring  his  assistance, 
without  an  inkling  of  disappointment  or  suspicion  of 
refusal — I  dropped  at  once  asleep  ;  so  quickly  and  so 
easily  are  the  turbulent  waves  and  boisterous  winds, 
whose  fury  threatened  never  to  be  chained  and  silenced, 
lulled  and  overcome. 

I  was  an  early  riser  in  the  morning,  but  Emma  was 
up  before  me.  I  found  her  dressed  for  departure,  and 
packing  up  her  clothes.  She  was  agitated  in  her 
work ;  every  action  showed  her  great  anxiety,  her  de- 
sire to  flit.  Her  quick  and  nervous  movements  told 
of  the  scourge  that  threatened  at  her  back,  and  urged 
her  forward.  I  prepared  the  breakfast  apparatus  as 
on  the  night  before.  I  poured  out  the  tea,  and  then 
bade  Emma  share  our  well-earned  meal. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  trembling  v>ith  ill-suppressed 


CALEB  STUKELY.  211 

passion,  "  nothing  here;  not  if  my  Ufe  depended  on  the 
crust !     Let  us  begone." 

"  It  is  useless,  my  dearest  Emma,  until  we  have  a 
place  to  go  to.  If  we  leave  this  now,  we  may  wander 
about  for  the  rest  of  the  day." 

"  Better  to  wander  through  the  world  for  ever 
than  be  housed  with  this  unfeeling  woman.  I  cannot 
stay." 

"  Nor  shall  you,  but  do  taste  a  little  food.  If  you 
will,  I'll  go  directly  and  procure  good  comfortable 
rooms  for  you.  Mrs  Bates  will  allow  you  to  remain 
until  I  return,  and  you  can  then  remove  quietly  at 
your  leisure." 

"  Go  then,  I  pray,  at  once.  Stukely,  I  cannot  eat," 
she  added,  as  I  put  the  loaf  of  bread  before  her. 
"  Don't  ask  me,  I  implore  you.  Oh,  if  you  love  me, 
remove  me  from  this  house  ! " 

She  paced  the  room  in  great  excitement,  and  I 
thought  it  expedient  to  depart  without  further  reason- 
ing. In  truth  I  had  much  to  do,  and  little  time  was 
there  to  spare.  The  morning  was  raw  and  cold.  I  drank 
off  a  glass  of  very  strong  brandy,  (a  healthy  habit  re- 
commended and  introduced  by  Temple,)  and  without 
delay  proceeded  on  my  errand.  At  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  I  found  Mrs  Bates  sitting  in  expectation. 

"  Well,"  enquired  that  lady,  "are  you  off?" 

"  Mrs  Bates,"  said  I,  actuated  by  a  sudden  thought, 
"  you  are,  I  think,  a  Christian  ?  " 


212  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  I  should  say  I  am,"  answered  the  meek  dame ; 
«  what  then  ?  " 

"  Is  it  the  act  of  a  Christian  to  cast  her  fellow- 
creatures  into  the  street?" 

"  Come,  none  of  that,  sir ;  that's  nothing  to  do  with 
Christianity.     Are  you  and  your  miss  ready  to  go  ?" 

«  We  are  not." 

"  Very  well,  that's  enough.  Sarah,"  she  bawled  out, 
"  bring  here  my  bonnet  and  shawl." 

"  Stay,  Mrs  Bates.  I  am  this  very  moment  going 
to  procure  apartments.  I  may  meet  with  some  at  once, 
or  I  may  have  to  seek  them  for  an  hour  or  two.  All 
I  ask  of  you  is  to  give  me  this  day  clear,  and  I  promise 
you  before  nightfall  we  will  leave  your  house.  I  will 
not  believe  that  you  can  deny  me  this  one  favour.  The 
accommodation  to  me  will  be  very  great,  and  I  cannot 
say  how  grateful  I  shall  be  for  your  kind  permission." 

(There  was  nobody  present  to  witness  my  descent, 
and  I  could  not  possibly  fall  lower  in  the  estimation  of 
Mrs  Bates.) 

"  Never  mind  the  bonnet  and  shawl,  Sarah,"  cried 
the  softened  landlady,  countermanding  the  previous 
order.  "  I'll  show  you,"  she  continued,  turning  to  me, 
"  that  I  am  a  Christian.  I'll  give  my  consent  to  your 
stopping  until  dusk,  but  not  a  minute  after — so  now 
make  as  much  haste  as  you  can." 

Without  returning  to  inform  Emma  of  the  reprieve, 
I  made  the  best  of  my  way  across  the  marshes  into  the 


CALEB  STUKELT.  213 

damp  and  foggy  town.  Desirous  above  all  other  things 
to  obtain  a  temporary  loan  from  Mr  Levy,  I  hastened 
first  to  that  good  gentleman's  abode,  reserving  other 
business  until  success  with  him  should  decide  my  fu- 
ture conduct. 

Before  I  parted  with  Mr  Levy  in  the  stage-coach 
which  carried  us  in  company  to  Cambridge,  that  wor- 
thy personage  had  favoured  me  with  a  pressing  invi- 
tation to  his  house,  giving  me  at  the  same  time  to 
understand  that  many  grand  advantages  were  likely  to 
accrue  to  me  from  his  acquaintance.  Well  do  I  re- 
member his  emphatic  words :  "  Yy  do  I  live,  Mr 
Shtukely,  in  this  vorld  of  trouble  ? — only  to  oblige  my 
friends."  Many  valuable  commodities,  he  assured  me, 
that  had  fallen  into  his  possession  by  some  mysterious 
agency,  were  offered  to  his  chosen  circle  at  prices  just 
low  enough  to  make  them  gifts,  without  causing  the 
pain  that  is  associated  with  a  gift's  acceptance.  Wine, 
liqueurs,  brandy,  and  tobacco,  with  an  enlarged  bene- 
volence, he  kept  to  cheer  the  jaded  spirits  of  the  over- 
worked and  studious;  and  money,  that  source  of  so 
much  evil,  was  valuable  to  him  only  when  it  might 
help  the  needy,  or  carry  the  inconsiderate  but  generous 
prodigal  over  some  big  and  pressing  difficulty.  Hard 
to  conceive,  as  my  past  experience  had  made  so  pure 
a  character,  still,  in  visiting  Mr  Levy  now,  I  was  pre- 
pared to  meet  a  man  above  the  common  herd.  From 
Temple  I  had  gathered  something  of  his  munificence 
and  open-heartedness.     Once  or  twice  when  Temple 


214  CALEB  STUKELT. 

had  imagined  that  my  funds  were  low,  and  when  I  had 
lost  an  amount  of  some  importance  at  his  gaming-table, 
he  would  enlarge  upon  the  liberality  of  his  friend,  and 
recommend  me  to  apply  to  him  for  help,  informing  me 
that  he  had  ever  stood  his  friend  in  need,  and  that  I 
might  reckon  on  his  good  faith  and  secrecy.  When  I 
compared  this  nobleness  of  soul  with  his  poor  habita- 
tion, and  especially  with  his  own  mean  and  foul  ex- 
terior, I  could  not  but  be  confounded  with  the  contrast; 
yet  proud  of  human  nature,  too,  here  offering  for  our 
imitation  a  spirit  of  good,  a  self-denying  saint,  renoun- 
cing for  the  benefit  of  mankind  the  commonest  enjoy- 
ments of  the  world.  Luckily  I  had  never  needed  this 
good  man's  help;  therefore,  perhaps,  I  had  never 
called  upon  him,  but  often  had  I  passed  his  dwelling, 
once  in  the  company  of  others,  and  on  that  occasion 
he  was  lolling  at  his  door,  negligently  attired.  Noti- 
cing my  approach,  he  started  back  and  disappeared,  but 
soon  returned  again  accompanied  by  a  lady,  somewhat 
ill-looking,  and  severely  marked  with  small-pox.  He 
smiled  and  nodded,  and  pointed  to  me  with  his  little 
finger.  "  That's  the  dear  boy,"  I  heard  him  say — and 
as  I  passed  at  length  his  hospitable  door,  he  threw 
upon  me  a  fond  expression  of  that  lively  eye,  a  probing 
look  of  love  unutterable  !  Such  was  the  man — such 
rather  did  I  deem  the  man — whose  heart  I  meant  to 
touch,  of  whose  good  help  I  stood  in  direful  need. 

I  stood  before  his  house,  a  low,  ill-shapen  den,  a 
cynic's  cell,  the  cavern  of  misanthropy — any  place  but 


C.\J.EB  STUKELY,  215 

the  abode  of  generous  Timon.  It  was  neither  private 
house  nor  shop,  yet  both.  A  doorway  and  a  single 
window  of  moderate  dimensions  were  all  that  met  the 
eye.  In  the  latter  nothing  was  exposed  to  view,  or, 
if  it  were,  you  might  not  see  it.  Like  the  great  pro- 
prietor, it  boasted  of  its  dirt.  Mud,  dust,  and  filth 
were  heaped  upon  it.  A  curtain  made  of  green  stuff, 
and  hung  with  rings  upon  a  bar,  meant  to  secure  the 
dwellers  from  the  gaze  of  passers-by,  impended  use- 
lessly, for  the  well-protected  panes  forestalled  its 
office.  The  entrance  was  a  dark  and  narrow  passage, 
which  (the  street  door  standing  open)  scared  you  off, 
or,  as  the  case  might  be,  invited  you  within.  In  the 
present  instance  I  went  forward  without  more  obser- 
vation. At  the  extremity  of  the  dim  avenue,  I  groped 
my  way  a  little  to  the  right,  until  a  door  prevented 
further  progress.  At  this  I  knocked  involuntarily, 
for  my  foot  struck  against  the  boards  before  I  knew 
that  I  had  reached  it.  The  door  was  opened  in- 
stantly. 

Many  strange  sights  have  I  been  privileged  to  see. 
Reader,  behold  the  strangest. 

In  one  corner  of  a  crowded  room  stood  Mr  Levy 
in  dishabille.  Faintly  indeed  have  I  described  him 
in  his  best  attire.  How  shall  I  paint  him  now  !  Levy, 
thou  art  gone,  and  numbered  with  thy  fathers.  Pos- 
terity can  never  do  thee  justice.  Thy  manes  never 
may  be  appeased.  Pardon  me,  thou  noble  piece  of 
earth,  that  my  pen  limps  and  falters  in  thy  delineation. 


21  G  CALEB  STUKELY. 

Oh,  for  a  quill  of  photographic  power,  to  fix  thee  in 
thy  evanescent  passage,  to  rescue  from  the  greedy 
throat  of  Time  that  form  and  face,  that  hair,  that  eye, 
that  goodly  but  unclean  array  !  Levy  in  dishabille  ! 
More  I  cannot  say.  In  the  lowest  depth  it  was  the 
deeper  still — the  dirty  Levy  dirtier  yet  —  the  spicy 
spiced  !  Before  him  was  a  Hebrew  book  ;  upon  his 
forehead,  exactly  between  his  eyes,  a  small  square 
piece  of  leather-covered  wood  (so  it  appeared  to  me,) 
kept  in  its  position  by  a  leathern  thong,  which  run- 
ning through  a  loop  was  carried  round  the  head  and 
tied  behind.  His  left  arm  was  exposed.  Around  it 
some  dozen  times  was  strapped  another  thong,  similar 
to  that  about  his  head.  His  coat  was  off;  his  vest 
unbuttoned ;  over  the  once  white  shirt  he  wore  a 
curious-coloured  garment,  formed  of  two  square  pieces 
of  blue  cloth,  one  hanging  down  before  his  breast, 
the  other  to  his  back,  and  both  attached  by  means  of 
two  long  slips  of  tape  connecting  them.  At  the 
extremity  of  the  four  corners  were  long  fringes  of 
white  worsted,  fastened  in  small  knots.  The  fringes 
in  the  front  were  in  Mr  Levy's  grasp  when  I  walked 
in,  and  started  with  amazement  at  the  novel  spectacle. 
Let  me  stand  stricken  with  surprise  whilst  the  reader 
looks  around  him.  There,  by  the  hearth,  over  that 
pan  of  hissing  oil,  fork  in  hand,  stands  the  ill-favoured 
lady  that  you  wot  of — she  of  the  pitted  face,  no  meaner 
person  than  the  mistress  of  the  house.  Levy's  wedded 
partner.     Her  cheek  is  scorched  before  the  crackling 


CALEB  STUKELT.  217 

fire,  but  her  gown,  tucked  up  and  pinned,  is  safe  from 
conflagration.  See  how  she  darts  upon  the  thrice- 
divided  sole,  and  with  artistic  stroke  turns  now  the 
head,  now  the  tail,  and  now  the  middle  piece, 
,  dogging  the  boiling  oil,  and  escaping  with  a  bob  so 
cleverly  the  scalding  sputter.  And  there  for  twenty 
years  hath  stood,  as  regularly  as  Friday  came,  this 
indefatigable  cook  frying  her  fish,  not  to  be  devoured 
savoury  and  *^arm,  as  fish  upon  the  sixth  day  falls 
into  the  pious  stomach  of  the  Romanist,  but  to  be  laid 
out  with  ceremonial  care,  in  pride  of  parsley,  and 
safely  locked  away  till  Sabbath  morn — when,  cold  and 
crisp  and  unctuous,  it  comes  forth  to  grease  and 
mollify  the  Levite's  heart,  and  haply  entertain  him 
with  a  fit  of  biliousness.  Miss  Esther  Levy  at  the 
table  sits,  herself  unwashed,  washing  her  brother  with 
a  disinterestedness  that  the  young  urchin,  cuffing  and 
kicking,  scarce  appreciates.  Rebecca,  second  born, 
is  busy  with  a  book,  no  doubt  a  pleasant  one.  You 
cannot  see  her  face ;  but  her  head,  a  mass  of  spiral 
papers,  rolls  with  impatience  at  the  little  Levy's 
struggling  cries.  There  in  a  bed  lie  two,  the  young- 
est of  the  group,  emerging  out  of  childhood — prattling 
innocents  !  Their  time  for  cleansing  has  not  yet 
arrived.  How  prettily  do  they  beguile  the  time  with 
that  small  pack  of  cards,  playing  at  all-fours  and 
manage^  three  games  for  a  halfpenny,  lisping  at 
intervals  a  wee  incipient  execration  as  fortune  changes, 
or   as  juggling   fails.     But,  last  of  all,  behold  the 

VOL.  I.  T 


218  CALEB  STUKELT. 

father's  pride,  Levy's  son  and  heir,  his  better  self— 
his  youthful  Prince  of  Wales — on  whom  the  parent's 
mantle  must  descend — in  whom  the  father's  brightest 
hopes  are  fixed.  His  body  is  twelve  years  old,  his 
head  a  hundred.  There  is  more  knowledge  of  the 
human  creature — of  the  impure  gross  part,  that  lies 
hidden  in  the  soul's  corrupted  sink — written  and 
engraved  in  that  precocious  cunning  cheek,  than 
twenty  ordinary  men  can  boast.  His  father  s  pride  ? 
oh,  rather  say  his /ear;  for  never  did  nature  mould 
in  human  flesh  a  countenance  so  portentous  !  Mark 
him,  as  he  sits  apart  from  all  his  brethren,  counting 
the  clay  marbles  which  he  himself  has  made — brush- 
ing the  metal  buttons  that  he  has  raked  up  every 
where,  and  every  one  of  which  he  means  to  sell  anon 
amongst  the  little  boys  in  school,  to  which  he  is  daily 
sent,  with  great  advantage  to  himself,  and  greater 
credit  to  his  master.  My  sudden  entrance  caused  a 
slight  intermission  in  the  various  doings  of  this  inter- 
esthig  family ;  but  the  beneficent  head  addressed  me 
without  delay,  and  the  waters  flowed  again  in  their 
accustomed  channels. 

"  Veil,  Hannah,  who'd  a  thought  it,  eh?  This  is 
a  honour.  But  I  always  said  he'd  come  at  last.  Sit 
down,  my  dear — I  shall  be  done  directly.  Here's  a 
shurprise  ! "  And  taking  the  book  into  his  hand,  he 
mumbled  out  some  Hebrew  words,  then  rubbed  the 
fringes  round  his  face,  and  finished  by  kissing  them 
with  fervour.     I  was  embarrassed  at  the  unaccount- 


CALEB  STUKELT.  219 

able  behaviour.  "  Perhaps  I  am  disturbmg  you,"  I 
said  ;  "  I'll  call  some  other  time,  sir." 

"  Not  at  all,"  was  his  reply,  "  you  don't  disturb 
me  in  the  least.  I  knows  it  all  by  heart.  I'm  only 
saying  my  prayers." 

"  Indeed,  sir!" 

"  Yes,  dat's  all.  How's  Mr  Temples  ?  Have  you 
seen  him  lately  ?  " 

Before  I  answered,  he  was  deep  in  the  Hebrew 
book  again.  Now  he  counted  quickly  the  straps  upon 
his  arm,  and  repeated  a  dozen  cabalistic  words  or  so 
with  a  loud  and  rapid  voice.  The  little  gamblers,  in 
the  mean  time,  quarrelled  at  their  game,  and  sadly 
interfered  with  the  sacred  occupation :  a  Christian's 
patience  couldn't  have  held  out  for  ever. 

"  Vill  you  two  be  quiet  there,"  the  father  cried  at 
last,  "  or  shall  I  come  and  make  you  ?  Hannah,  vy 
the  devil  don't  you  take  them  cards  avay?" 

"  Vot's  the  good  ?  "  answered  Mrs  Levy  from  the 
fire ;  "  you  know  as  veil  as  I  do,  Sol,  you'll  give  'em 
back  the  minute  after." 

"  Vill  I  ? "  said  the  husband,  leaving  his  manual 
without  further  ceremony.  "  Then  you'll  see,  my 
dear."  Forthwith  he  rushed  to  the  bedside,  and 
snatched  the  cards  from  both  the  trembling  children ; 
then  he  bestowed  a  blow  upon  the  head  of  each — 
which,  as  might  be  expected,  set  them  roaring. 
Unaffected  by  their  cries,  the  pious  man  returned  to 
his  devotions,  and  proceeded  as  before.     His  com- 


220  CALEB  STUKELY. 

pliance  with  the  law  was  evidently  irksome.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  stopped  again. 

"  How  long  is  it,  Mr  Shtukely,  since  ve  travelled 
in  the  stage-coach  together?" 

"  About  eighteen  months,  sir." 

"  Ah  ! "  sighed  the  old  gentleman,  "  how  fast  the 
vurld  goes  !  " — which  serious  observation  no  doubt 
recalled  him  to  his  duty — for  he  seized  the  book  again, 
and  lost  himself  for  a  few  minutes  longer.  But  the 
morning  was  inauspicious.  He  was  doomed  to  inter- 
ruption. Miss  Esther,^be  it  known,  was  worn  out  at 
length  by  the  unpolished  sample  of  Mosaic  that  she 
was  brightening  up.  Like  the  living  block  from  which 
he  was  cut  off,  he  was  the  slave  of  hydrophobia — he 
would  not  be  washed. 

"  Father,"  said  Esther,  in  a  tone  of  real  despair, 
"  I  wish  you'd  speak  to  Aby.  I  can't  do  nothink  with 
him.     He  has  fit  me  till  I'm  sick." 

"  You,  sir,"  bawled  out  the  harassed  parent,  "  do 
you  vant  a  licking  the  first  thing  this  morning  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  boy,  in  as  irreverent  a  voice  as 
ever  filial  throat  cast  up. 

"  Then  don't  wex  me,  my  boy,  or  you'll  catch  it  at  once." 

And  he  did  "  catch  it  at  oncer  I  was  still  looking 
intently  upon  Mr  Levy's  curious  trappings,  when  a 
loud  blow,  followed  by  a  louder  scream,  compelled  my 
attention  elsewhere. 

"  Vot's  the  matter  now  ?  "  shouted  Mr  I^evy,  almost 
beside  himself. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  221 

*'  That  sarves  you  right ! "  exclaimed  his  good  lady, 
addressing  the  juvenile  above  referred  to,  now  lying 
at  her  feet  kicking  furiously.  "  I  caught  you,  did  I  ? 
My  back  isn't  turned  a  minute  before  the  villain  has 
picked  off  every  bit  of  brown  in  the  disli.  You  won't 
maul  the  fish,  my  dear,  again  in  a  hurry." 

All  the  family  seemed  horror-struck  at  the  unholy 
pilfering,  but  Mr  Levy  himself  was  choked  with  just 
rage,  "  If  you  don't  take  avay  the  raseaFs  share 
to-morrow  morning,  Hannah,  you  and  I  shall  quarrel. 
Dat  boy,  Mr  Shtukely,"  continued  he,  still  neglecting 
his  orisons,  "  dat  boy,  sir,  vill  come  to  the  gallows,  if 
his  mother  and  I  don't  live  to  see  it.  He  has  got  a 
nateral  idea  of  shtealing  that  breaks  my  heart  to  think 
of.  He's  booked  for  Newgate,  though  I  say  it :  "— 
and  Mr  Levy,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  pursued  his  prayers, 
and  did  not  speak  again  on  worldly  topics  till  he 
brought  them  to  a  close.  Once  more  in  ecstasy  he 
wiped  his  visage  with  the  fringes,  and  kissed  them 
passionately;  and,  last  of  all,  he  turned  his  face 
towards  the  wall,  bowed  to  it  with  reverence  repeat- 
edly, and  beat  his  breast  with  force  and  sound  that 
would  have  pleased  a  stethoscopist's  ear. 

"  You  have  nothing  to  say  pertikler,  I  suppose  ?  " 
asked  Mr  Levy,  taking  from  his  head  and  arm  the 
leathern  straps. 

"  A  few  words,  if  you  please,"  I  answered  nervously. 

"  Oh,  sartinly,  my  dear !    Ikey,  undo  the  shutters." 

Ikey,  the  eldest  boy,  reserved  and  silent  hitherto, 


222  CALEB  STUKELY. 

furbishing  his  buttons,  looked  hard  at  me,  and  left  the 
room  without  a  word. 

"  Ve'll  follow,  if  you  please,"  said  Levy  shortly 
afterwards  ;  *'  it's  up  the  vone  pair  stairs." 

"  Vot  do  you  think  of  Ikey  ?  "  asked  the  fond  father, 
as  we  searched  our  way  in  darkness  up  the  staircase. 

"  He's  a  very  quiet  boy,  sir." 

"  Ah,  a  deep  un  !  Just  vot  I  should  have  been  at 
his  age  vith  a  eddication !  I  meant  to  have  named 
him  after  me,  if  it  hadn't  been  'gainst  the  religions. 
Vill  you  believe,  I  vouldn't  mind  dropping  Ikey  this 
blessed  minute  in  the  streets  of  Turkey  ?  He'd  make 
his  fortune  anyvheres." 

We  reached  the  sanctum,  a  small  and  really  elegantly 
furnished  room.  From  the  centre  was  suspended  a 
pretty  silvered  chandelier — a  Sabbath  lamp,  as  Mr 
Levy  termed  it.  Young  Ikey  had  ensconced  himself 
at  the  table,  and  showed  no  symptoms  of  departure. 

"  And  now,"  said  Mr  Levy,  placing  on  his  nose  a 
pair  of  iron  spectacles,  "  vot  is  it  you  vant,  my  dear  ? 
You  don't  happen  to  be  out  of  vine  ?  I've  got  some 
port — oh  ! "  (and  he  smacked  his  lips  and  swung  his 
head,  to  express  a  praise  too  huge  for  utterance.) 
"  Dat  isn't  good  port  at  all,  Ikey,  is  it  ?  Vot  did  it 
cost?" 

"  Fifty-nine  and  six,"  answered  the  boy-man  imme- 
diately. 

"And  vot  do  I  sell  it  for?" 

"  Sixty,"  said  he,  just  as  readily. 


CALEB  STUKELT.  223^ 

*'  I  came,  sir,"  said  I,  rather  confounded  as  the 
time  for  explanation  approached,  "  to  solicit  your  aid 
in  a  different  way.  The  truth  is,  I  have  overdrawn 
my  allowance  from  home,  and  I  require  a  little  help  to 
carry  me  over  the  quarter.  If  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  advance  me  a  loan — say  for  three  months — I  shall 
feel  deeply  indebted  to  you,  and  but  too  glad  to  show, 
to  the  extent  of  my  power,  my  gratitude  for  such 
obligation."  This  was  only  a  portion  of  the  speech 
that  I  had  prepared  upon  the  road.  The  rest  of  it, 
the  ornamental  and  best  part,  I  could  not  get  out. 
The  small  Levy  turned  up  his  knowing  eye  as  soon 
as  he  heard  the  word  loaii,  and  planted  it  steadily 
upon  me,  to  my  very  great  shame  and  annoyance. 
The  father  was  silent  a  while. 

"  How  much  might  you  vant,  Mr  Shtukely  ?  "  asked 
the  old  man,  after  his  musing. 

"  What's  the  use  of  your  asking  ? "  shrieked  the 
young  monster.  "  You  know,  father,  you  haven't  a 
shilling  in  the  house,  and  there  are  those  three  bills 
that  were  returned  the  other  day," 

No  medicine  could  have  caused  the  awful  abdominal 
pain  that  was  brought  on  by  this  sudden  announce- 
ment. Oh,  what  would  become  of  poor  Emma,  sitting 
expectant  at  home,  ready  to  be  turned  out  of  doors  ? 
What  would  become  of  me  and  my  projects  ?  I  felt 
the  blood  leaving  my  cheek.  Levy  perceived  it,  and 
he  was  instantly  touched  by  the  sight 

*'  Veil,  for  all  that,  Ikey,"  he  added,  "  ve  must  see 


224  CALEB  STUKELY. 

vot  ve  can  do.  If  I  ain't  got  money  myself,  I  dare 
say  IVe  got  a  friend  vill  help  us  at  a  pinch. 
But,  my  dear,"  continued  he,  "  vot  have  you  been 
doing  to  get  into  this  mess  ?  It's  alvays  the  vay. 
Nobody  comes  to  Levy  till  he's  kicked  to  him.  You 
know  vot  I  said  in  the  coach.  You  should  come 
to  me  before — and  I  vould  have  been  a  friend  and 
a  father." 

"I  wish  I  had,  sir!" 

"  Veil,  that's  gone  by,  and  it's  no  good  fretting 
about  that.     How  much  do  you  vant  ?  " 

"  How  much  can  you  spare,  sir  ?  " 

"  Shpare !"  exclaimed  Mr  Levy,  returning  the 
question.  "  Ikey,  give  me  my  bill-book."  Isaac 
took  from  his  pocket  a  bunch  of  keys — selected  one — 
opened  the  table  drawer — examined  a  book — closed 
the  drawer — locked  it  up — put  the  keys  in  his  pocket, 
and  resumed  his  former  position,  in  about  the  tenth  of 
the  time  that  I  have  taken  to  tell  of  it.  He  was  the 
quickest  and  yet  most  methodical  little  imp  in  exist- 
ence. "  There,"  resumed  the  older  head,  pointing 
with  his  small  finger  to  a  mass  of  names  and  figures, 
whose  connexion  I  neither  could  nor  cared  to  compre- 
hend, "  There  you  see.  At  three  months  ninety-four 
pounds  accepted  by  Lord  Velvetcop,  due  September  6th, 
noted,  returned.  Look  here,  too,"  wetting  his  finger, 
and  leaving  a  large  smut  on  a  leaf  as  he  turned  it 
over,  "  same  day  sixty-eight  pounds  ten,  accepted  by 
Smallwoody  payable  at  Tinpenny*s,  no  orders,  returned  ; 


CALEB  STUKELY.  225 

and  Thomas,  the  day  after,  fifty  pound  two.  Vot  do 
you  think  a  man  has  to  shpare  when  he's  upset  in  this 
way  ?  Ikey  tould  you  the  truth.  I  have  nothing  at 
all ;  but  tell  me  pretty  near  vot  you  vant ;  then  I'll 
see  the  friend  that  I  mean,  and  let  you  know  in  the 
course  of  an  hour." 

"  Do  you  think  you  might  manage  a  hundred  pounds 
for  me,  sir  ?  " 

Levy  jumped.  "  Vy,  vot  the  deuce  have  you  been 
about  to  vant  sich  a  sum  all  at  vonce  ?  I  von't 
deceive  you,  my  dear;  I  don't  think  I  can  manage 
nothink  of  the  kind." 

I  showed  signs  of  uneasiness,  and  walked  about  in 
a  state  of  commotion. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  continued,  "  it's  no  use  being 
nervous.     Dat  von't  get  you  the  money." 

I  was  in  great  distress — wrought  to  intolerable 
mental  torture,  as  I  reflected  on  my  situation.  "  Oh, 
this  is  terrible  ! "  I  exclaimed,  (to  myself,  as  I 
thought. ) 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Mr  Levy,  in  a  tone  of  passive 
acquiescence ;  "  ve  know  it's  always  terrible  ven  ve 
vant  cash  and  can't  get  it;  and  you  seem  to  vant 
it  rayther  bad  too  just  now." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  do,  sir.  If  you  can  help  me  in 
any  way,  I  implore  you  to  do  so.  I  must  borrow  the 
money  of  somebody." 

"  You  must,  must  you  ?  "  said  the  old  man  looking 
at  Ikey,  who  was  looking  at  him.    "  Very  veil,  you  had 


226  CALEB  STUKELY. 

better  take  a  valk  in  the  cool  for  a  little,  vile  I  run 
to  my  friend.  I'll  be  back  between  this  and  ten." 
"  Oh,  sir,  I  can  never  sufficiently  thank  you !" 
"  Veil,  never  mind  now.  You've  nothink  to  thank 
me  for  yet ;  and  vot's  more,  I  can't  promise  you  much. 
Go  and  valk  for  an  hour,  and  then  come  and  see  me 
again." 

I  departed  from  the  singular  abode  in  an  over- 
whelming state  of  anxiety  and  dread.  What  could  I 
do  during  this  hour  of  fearful  suspense  ?  I  couldn't 
return  to  Emma  until  I  was  furnished  with  money,  or 
at  least  had  procured  lodgings  for  our  temporary 
sojourn.  Oh  !  I  was  very  wretched  as  I  walked  one 
street  after  another,  looking  at  my  watch  at  intervals 
of  five  minutes,  astounded  and  hurt  at  the  sluggish 
pace  with  which  its  hands  crawled  on.  A  nasty 
irritating  rain,  too,  came  drizzling  down,  taking  a 
mean  advantage  of  my  misery,  beating  in  my  face, 
and  spitting  in  my  eyes,  whichever  way  I  turned. 
How  cordially,  when  they  please,  can  the  elements 
adapt  themselves  to  our  internal  circumstances ! 
Twenty  minutes,  like  minutes  sauntering  on  a  holi- 
day— twenty  lazy  minutes  had  elapsed,  when  "  Lod- 
gings to  let"  hanging  on  a  polished  knocker,  stopped 
me  in  a  quiet  narrow  thoroughfare.  What  better 
could  I  do  than  try  my  fortune  here  ?  I  gave  a  modest 
gentlemanly  knock,  and  smiled  most  courteously  upon 
the  ancient  lady,  who  came  "  when  I  did  call  for  her." 
Nothing  could  be  more  assuring  than  the  curtsy  she 


CALEB  STUKELT.  227 

yielded  in  return — deceitful  promise,  realizing  nothing ! 
A  dozen  houses  did  I  visit  afterwards,  a  dozen  times 
was  expectation  balked.  The  truth  could  not  be 
hidden,  and  it  was  wise  to  look  at  it  complacently. 
Money  must  be  got,  and  for  the  present  we  must  leave 
the  town.  I  watched  the  latest  second  of  the  hour 
expire,  and  then  rushed  back  to  Levy's.  Father  and 
son  were  sitting  in  the  same  well-furnished  room.  My 
judge  and  jury  both  were  there.  I  came  for  sentence  ; 
trembling  and  like  a  criminal  did  I  await  it. 

"  Ah,  Mr  Shtukely !  "  commenced  the  elder,  with 
an  ill-omened  shrug,  "  this  is  a  most  unpleasant  busi- 
ness." 

Death  was  the  verdict,  and  I  drooped  immediately. 

"  Tell  me,  couldn't  you  vait  a  month — three  veeks, 
for  the  money  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  cannot,  sir." 

"  It's  impossible,  eh  ?  " 

"  Quite,  oh  quite." 

"  You  are  positive  of  that  ?  You  are  sure  you  von't 
alter  your  mind  directly,  and  say  you  can  put  it  off 
for  a  bit?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I  was  arriving  fast  at  despera- 
tion. 

"  Veil,  you  see  this  is  a  thousand  pities,  'cause,  in 
a  month's  time,  I  could  lend  you  the  money  myself 
vithout  fee  or  revard,  and  it  vould  be  a  treat  to  oblige 
you ;  but  if  you  von't  vait,  I  can't  help  it." 

"  Have  you  seen  your  friend,  sir  ?  " 


228  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  but  you  know  vot  friends  are  ven 
you  put  your  nose  into  their  pockets.  He  has  got  the 
stuff;  but  he  doesn't  like  to  part  vith  it.  Now,  Usten 
to  me.  You  know  your  own  business,  of  course ;  but 
take  my  advice,  don't  borrow  the  money  at  all.  If 
you  are  determined,  in  shpite,  I'll  just  tell  you  vot  my 
friend  vishes,  and  then  you  can  do  as  you  please.  In 
the  first  place,  you  must  know  he  has  intrusted  the 
money  to  me,  and  here  it  is  if  you  come  to  his  terms." 

Oh,  refreshing  spectacle  !  Oh,  luminous  corrusca- 
tions !  Fifty  sovereigns,  at  least,  did  Mr  Levy  draw 
with  one  grasp  from  his  pocket,  and  scatter  on  the 
table.  Water  to  a  thirsty  soul  upon  the  plains  of 
Araby — what  is  it  to  golden  guineas  glittering  before 
the  straining  eyes  of  gaunt  necessity?  A  mountain 
tumbled  from  my  breast  as  I  surveyed  the  precious 
coin.  With  a  smirking  grace  I  waited  Mr  Levy's 
further  explanation. 

"  His  terms  is  this — but  mind,  I  varn  you,  do  vith- 
out  him  if  you  can : — He'll  lend  you  noic^  this  minute, 
the  money  you  desire;  dat  is,  a  hundred  pounds. 
Seventy  in  these  bright  goolden  guineas,  and  thirty  in 
the  finest  port  that  ever  vas.  He'll  charge  you  five 
per  cent,  'cause  that's  the  law,  and  then  a  something 
for  commission.  You'll  give  your  bill  at  three  months 
for  the  sum,  and  make  over  to  him,  for  security,  your 
furniture,  and  books,  and  vatch.  Now,  there  you've 
got  it — dat's  the  most  he'll  do.  As  for  myself,  you 
are  velcome  to  my  services.     I  shall  make  no  charge 


CALEB  STUKELT.  229 

for  them.  If  you  like  to  give  Ikey  a  trifle  for  hisself, 
I  shall  make  no  objections." 

Ignorant  of  the  forms  of  business,  I  requested  Mr 
Levy  to  repeat  this  complicated  history.  I  understood 
it  by  degrees,  and  saw  at  length,  in  full,  the  grievous 
sacrifice  I  was  called  upon  to  make.  I  stood  still 
and  hesitated. 

"  The  vine,  you  know,"  said  Levy,  "  is  as  good  as 
money,  for  you  must  have  that.  Shtill  take  my  advice, 
and  let  him  keep  his  guineas  to  hisself." 

"  It  is  a  horrible  alternative,"  thought  I,  still  unde- 
cided. 

"  And  now,  my  dear,"  continued  Mr  Levy,  "  I  have 
just  a  vurd  to  say  upon  my  own  account.  You  must 
settle  this  business  von  vay  or  the  other.  I  have  thirty 
mile  to  travel  this  pleasant  morning,  and  I  sha'n't  be 
back  again  for  a  day  or  two." 

"  You  don't  mean  it,  sir  ?  "  I  said,  wofully  alarmed 
to  see  him  walking  from  the  room. 

"  Vot  I  say,  my  dear,  I  alvays  means ;  that's  the 
beauty  of  my  character.  Ikey,  fetch  my  hat.  I  am 
very  sorry  to  leave  you,  but  go  I  must.  Good-by. 
God  bless  you.  Think  over  his  proposition ;  don't  be 
in  any  hurry,  and  give  me  your  answer  ven  I  return. 
If  you  ask  me,  I  say,  don't  take  the  money — that's 
the  best." 

"  Do  you  think  your  friend,  sir,  couldn't  be  per- 
suaded " 

"  Not  to-day,  my  dear.    P'r'aps  ven  I  comes  back." 


230  CALEB  STUKELT. 

Mr  Levy  was  already  on  the  stairs.  In  another 
minute  he  would  disappear,  and  then  should  I  be 
without  hope  of  succour.  My  unfortunate  and  critical 
position  —  my  wants  —  poor  Emma — no  lodgings — 
no  home — all  this,  and  much  more  uncircumscribed 
misery,  crowded  upon  my  mind,  and  incited  me  to 
yield  to  the  demand :  at  the  same  time  I  was  frightened 
and  shocked  by  the  ruinous  transaction,  and  I  held 
back  and  fluctuated.  At  length  I  heard  a  footstep  in 
the  passage.  I  leaped  to  the  window,  and  saw  Levy 
depart  from  the  house,  and  walk  slowly  on.  Shaking 
with  agitation,  conquered,  hardly  conscious  of  my  acts, 
I  knocked  with  violence  and  quickly  upon  the  glass, 
and  beckoned  the  old  man  back.  He  returned,  and 
with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  scarlet  shame  written  upon 
my  conscience,  I  consented  to  the  terms,  and  expressed 
my  willingness  to  perform  immediately  my  part  of 
them. 

"  Veil,  then,"  said  Levy,  "  let's  lose  no  time.  I 
have  wasted  half  a  day  already.  I  shall  be  nicely  out 
of  pocket  by  the  business.  Ikey,  vofs  the  stamp  ? 
Three  months,  a  hundred  ?  " 

"  Four  and  six,"  replied  the  devilkin  with  his 
hideous  sprightliness,   "  and  twopence  for  the  paper." 

"  Give  him  five  shillings,  and  tell  him  to  keep  the 
ha'pence,"  whispered  the  father  confidentially,  touch- 
ing me  familiarly  with  his  elbow. 

I  comphed  with  this  suggestion.  The  stamp  was 
brought,  the  note  drawn   out,  and  I  taught  by  old 


CALEB  STUKELT.  231 

Levy  to  accept  it.  A  memorandum  was  then  written 
by  the  ready  Ikey,  and  signed  by  me,  certifying  that 
all  goods  and  chattels  then  in  Cambridge  and  in  my 
possession  were,  until  payment  of  the  bill,  not  my 
property,  but  that  of  the  blank  gentleman  who  had 
advanced  the  loan.  In  consideration  of  my  not 
removing  them  from  college,  he  graciously  permitted 
me  the  usufruct.  Mr  Levy  undertook  to  see  the  wine 
safely  deposited  at  my  present  lodging ;  and  the  charge 
likewise  of  my  gold  hunting-watch  —  my  poor  dear 
mother's  gift — how  could  I  yield  it  so  remorselessly  ? 
and  having  given  this  to  the  boy  to  lock  away,  he 
handed  to  me  what  he  called  "  a  statement  of  the 
job,"  and  with  it  sixty  pounds,  "  the  balance  (!)  of  the 
bill." 

If,  instead  of  securing  sixty  guineas  in  this  dis- 
graceful manner,  I  had  earned  six  hundred  honestly,  I 
could  not  have  skipped  away  from  Levy's  door  with 
greater  speed  and  glee.  Strange  compound  is  the 
human  animal,  acting  so  variously  from  the  selfsame 
motives  !  Had  I  been  sane,  not  steeped  in  folly  to  the 
very  ears,  this  miserable  gold,  wretchedly  acquired, 
pressing  like  lead  upon  my  spirits,  would  have  crushed 
them  with  its  guilty  burden.  Now,  it  elated  me,  and 
puffed  me  up  with  flatulent  unmeaning  joy.  "  Symp- 
toms," says  the  millesimal  homceopathist,  "  in  the  dis- 
ordered body  are  removed  by  causes  producing  them 
in  the  healthy  one."  Is  it  not  so  in  fact  with  the 
diseased  infatuated  mind?  I  neither  reflected  on  the 


232  CALEB  STUKELY. 

past,  nor  flung  one  glance  upon  the  future.  With  the 
means  of  present  enjoyment  I  flew  to  Emma,  and 
released  her  from  her  sad  imprisonment. 

At  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  Emma  and  I,  our 
luggage  and  our  wine,  drove  through  the  streets  of 
Huntingdon.  Upon  the  following  morning  I  left  the 
inn  at  which  we  had  passed  the  night,  and  endeavoured 
to  search  out  a  home.  Aided  by  a  lie,  I  succeeded 
without  difficulty.  Emma  was  introduced  as  Mrs 
Stukely  to  the  lady  who  received  us.  The  latter  was 
very  young,  recently  a  widow,  and  the  mother  of  a 
lovely  girl,  perhaps  three  years  of  age.  Her  husband 
had  been  an  officer  in  the  Company's  service ;  he  had 
fallen  in  battle,  fighting  for  his  company  and  his 
bread,  gloriously  in  India. 

The  tranquillity  of  a  day  or  two  brought  back  the 
healthy  tint  to  Emma's  cheek,  and  restored  her  wont- 
ed gayety.  She  forgot  her  previous  affliction,  and  I 
remembered  nothing  but  her  adored  and  beauteous 
presence.  In  our  apartment  was  a  pianoforte.  She 
taught  me  soon  the  assuaging,  humanizing  power  of 
music — poetry  in  sounds  !  Her  taste  was  exquisite, 
and  the  feeling  with  which  she  executed  the  most 
plaintive  airs,  awakened  in  my  soul  vehement  emotions, 
undreamt-of  capabilities  of  delight  Her  clear  voice 
accompanied  the  penetrating  tones,  and  to  their  unde- 
fined wild  intimations  would  associate  and  conjoin  soft 
images  that  through  the  understanding  reached  the 
heart,  and  melted  it  with  pity.     Consummate  bliss ! 


CALEB  STUKELY.  233 

riveted  to  her  side,  and  every  nerve  vibrating  with 
the  touching  sounds,  what  could  the  world  afford  to 
enhance  felicity — what  could  it  snatch  away  to  ruffle 
it? 

"  Caleb,"  said  Emma  to  me,  having  just  concluded 
a  short  affecting  song,  and  still  sitting  at  the  piano, 
(it  was  the  fourth  evening  after  our  arrival,)  "  Caleb, 
there  is  a  Httle  air,  a  favourite  of  my  poor  mother's ; 
you  must  hear  that,  if  I  have  heart  to  sing  it.  She 
instructed  me  in  the  words  before  I  could  under- 
stand their  meaning — when  I  could  scarcely  utter 
them." 

"  Is  your  mother  living  now,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Emma,  in  a  melancholy  voice ;  "  she 
has  been  dead  some  years,  poor  sufferer  ! " 

"  Was  she  a  kind,  affectionate  mother  ?"  I  enquired, 
rather  startled  as  I  found  myself  entering  upon  such 
tender  ground.     "  Did  you  love  her  dearly  ?  " 

Emma  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  Don't  be  unhappy,  dearest  Emma.  I  cannot  bear 
to  see  you  weep ;  you  quite  unman  me.  Forget  the 
past     My  love  shall  make  amends  for  hers." 

"  You  are  very  good  and  tender  to  me,  Caleb.  A 
mother's  love  is  unapproachable.  I  thought  I  loved 
her  much  whilst  she  was  with  me ;  but  I  never  knew 
my  need  of  her  till  they  closed  her  in  the  grave."  She 
spoke  with  passion,  and  again  she  wept. 

There  was  a  living  mother  also.  Was  one  thought 
of  her  suggested  by  this  weeping  girl  ?     And  did  the 

VOL.  I.  u 


234  CALEB  STUKEI.T. 

cruel  wrong  inflicted  on  that  mother's  absent  heart 
touch  me  with  contrition  and  alarm  ?     We  shall  see. 

Emma  ceased  crying.  Throwing  her  smooth  and 
shining  tresses  from  her  forehead,  she  swept  her  fingers 
quickly  along  the  keys,  and  with  thrilKng  strains 
gradually  subdued  her  soul. 

"  Now,  Caleb,  Usten  to  my  dear  mother's  song." 
She  sang  as  follows : — 

THE   mother's   grave. 

"  The  days  are  past,  the  early  days 

Of  innocenee^nd  joy, 
When  tears  would  fill  a  mother's  eye 

With  gazing  on  her  boy  ; 
Tears  that  from  the  soul  would  rise. 

Yet  not  for  present  sorrow  ; 
For  when  she  wept,  her  loving  eye 

Was  trembling  for  the  morrow. 

My  mother  sleeps ;  her  grave  is  green,. 

The  aged  grass  is  high. 
And  every  blade  when  I  approach 

Is  quivering  with  a  sigh. 
Then  piously  I  do  believe 

That,  where  that  gi'ass  grows  wild, 
My  blessed  mother's  sainted  soul 

Is  gazing  on  her  child." 

"  Hark  ! "  exclaimed  Emma,  as  she  concluded, 
"  some  one  knocks."  I  opened  the  door  and  admitted 
the  little  girl  belonging  to  the  landlady. 

"  If  you  please,"  lisped  the  fair  child,  "  mamma 
sends  up  her  compliments,  and  will  you  go  do\vn-stairs 
to  tea?" 


CALEB  STUKELY.  235 

"  Do  you  mean  me,  dear  Ann  ?  "  said  L 

«  No.     Both  of  you.     Mrs  Stukely  too." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  this  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  do  come,"  she  continued,  pulling  me  by 
the  coat,  "  or  else  mamma  will  cry.  Come,  Mrs 
Stukely ;  tea  is  quite  ready." 

A  more  formal  invitation  was  addressed  to  us  a  few 
minutes  afterwards  by  Mrs  Springdale  herself,  who 
followed  her  daughter  into  the  room.  We  readily 
accepted  it,  and  were  soon  seated  in  her  warm  and 
hospitable  parlour.  Every  thing  was  very  snug.  A 
bright  copper  kettle  panted  and  fumed  away  upon  the 
fire,  speaking  its  honest  welcome  as  plain  as  steam 
could  pour  it  forth ;  toast  and  tea-cakes  were  heating 
on  a  footman ;  a  plate  of  bread  and  butter  thinly  cut 
for  company  w^as  on  the  table  ;  candles  burned  brightly 
in  shining  candlesticks ;  tea-pot  and  cups  looked  con- 
versable and  clean ;  and  the  whole  economy  and  ten- 
dency of  the  room  most  persuasive  and  alluring  !  A 
quiet,  cheerful,  comfortable  home  !  Ah,  me  !  how 
much  of  life's  true  substance  thou  comprisest  ! 

"  This  arm-chair  is  for  you,  Mr  Stukely,"  said  the 
gentle  Mrs  Springdale ;  I  have  put  it  near  the  fire  on 
purpose.  Mrs  Stukely  and  I  will  chat  together  at  the 
table." 

("  Here's  a  difference,"  thought  I,  "  to  that  abo- 
minable Mrs  Bates.") 

"  Then,  Anny,"  said  I  aloud,  turning  to  the  child, 


236  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  you  must  sit  upon  my  knee.  Come  and  tell  me  all 
the  news." 

And  in  this  affectionate  style  did  we  progress  until 
the  tea  was  over,  and  the  things  were  carried  off. 
Then  we  all  drew  our  chairs  around  the  love-dispen- 
sing fire,  and  for  a  season  interchanged  sweet  and 
familiar  talk.  Mrs  Springdale,  with  a  sober  sadness, 
communicated  her  short  marriage  history.  "  Mr 
Springdale  was  so  heroic,  and  had  so  high  a  spirit. 
He  had  been  educated  for  a  surgeon,  but  his  ardent 
nature  was  cabined  and  confined  in  this  employment. 
An  opportunity  offered  to  go  abroad.  He  accepted  it, 
and  left  his  wife  and  child.  He  had  scarcely  landed 
before  he  was  called  to  action.  His  daring  and  im- 
petuous temper  led  him  to  the  thickest  of  the  fight. 
He  fell,  covered  with  wounds.  It  was  a  dreadful 
death.  Away  from  every  friend — without  a  moment 
to  offer  up  one  prayer  to  Heaven  !  Oh,  it  was  very 
shocking  !  But  he  died  in  a  noble  cause — he  fell  for 
his  country,  that  was  a  great  consolation  to  his  widowed 
wife,  as  it  would  be  to  his  fatherless  child  when  she 
grew  up."  And  all  this  Mrs  Springdale  uttered  in  a 
very  serious  tone,  but  without  extorting  one  tear  from 
her  eye. 

Emma's  notice  had  been  attracted  many  times  during 
the  evening  by  a  small  picture  which,  in  an  old  wooden 
frame,  was  suspended  in  the  centre  of  one  side  of  the 
apartment.     I  followed  her  eye  as  often  as  she  glanced 


CALEB  STUKELY.  237 

towards  it,  but  I  could  perceive  nothing  in  the  paint- 
ing to  merit  such  repeated  observation.  She  at  length 
addressed  our  hostess  on  the  subject.  "  Is  that  the 
representation  of  a  church,  Mrs  Springdale  ?  "  she  en- 
quired carelessly,  as  she  imagined. 

"  Yes,"  replied  that  lady  with  a  kind  of  half  sigh. 
"  You  are  surprised  that  I  keep  so  unprepossessing  a 
picture  hanging  there  by  itself?  I  don't  wonder  at 
it ;  yet  I  wouldn't  part  with  it,  dirty  and  old  as  it  is, 
for  the  finest  painting  in  the  world.  There  are  eight 
years  of  my  life  during  which  I  cannot  recollect  that 
there  sprung  up  one  painful  hour.  It  was  all  happi- 
ness. Eight  years  not  embittered  by  one  heart-rend- 
ing or  gloomy  reflection  are  something  to  boast  of. 
That  painting  is  a  memorial  of  them.  Within  a 
hundred  yards  of  that  church,  the  eight  delicious  years 
were  passed." 

"  Where  was  it,  may  I  ask  ?  "  said  Emma  wdth  in- 
creased interest. 

"  Were  you  ever  in  Kent  ?  "  enquired  Mrs  Spring- 
dale. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Emma,  the  colour  gradually 
leaving  her  cheek. 

"  Well,   that's  the  parish  church  of ,  in  the 

county  of  Kent." 

Emma  turned  deathly  pale. 

Mrs  Springdale  did  not  remark  it,  and  continued — 
''  Until  I  was  eight  years  old,  I  lived  in  the  little  house 


238  CALEB  STUKELT. 

that  you  see  painted  there  in  the  background."  Both 
ladies  rose  to  view  the  picture  more  closely,  and  I 
followed  them.  "  Up  this  long  walk,  and  through  the 
stile,  did  I  regularly,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  for  five 
years,  trip  to  the  church,  sometimes  with  my  mother, 
and  sometimes  with  the  maid,  but  oftenest  with  the 
good  old  clerk,  whose  company  I  loved  better  than 
that  of  either.  Do  you  observe  this  tree,  the  old 
oak?" 

"  Yes,"  cried  Emma,  interrupting  her,  and  trembling 
with  suppressed  emotion,  "  Marian's  oak,  as  they 
called  it." 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  you  know  it,  you  have  been 
there  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs  Springdale,  starting  round, 
and  in  the  action  upsetting  the  candle  which  I  held  in 
my  hand.     "  How  very  strange  !  " 

"  I  spent  some  months  in  the  neighbourhood,"  re- 
plied Emma,  struggling  to  collect  herself,  "  and  often 
visited  this  lovely  spot." 

"  But  did  you  ever  visit  the  church?" 

"  Often,  very  often." 

"  Well,  how  strange  !  "  repeated  the  astonished  lady. 
"  I  wonder  I  didn't  see  you  !  I  have  been  to  the  place, 
once  or  twice,  since  I  first  left  it.  The  last  time  I  was 
there  was  the  very  year  that  the  new  clergjTnan  came, 
that  tall,  glum-looking  parson,  who  frightened  every 
body  out  of  his  wits.  Oh,  wasn't  he  a  stern  man  !  I 
never  could  bear  him.     I  wonder  what  has  become  of 


CALEB  STUKELY.  239 

him,  and  of  that  meek-looking  inoiFensive  woman  his 
wife  ?  " 

I  watched  Emma  throughout  this  singular  scene, 
and  now  I  saw  her  eyelid  quiver  as  though  a  knife 
were  on  it.     She  was  still  mistress  of  herself. 

"  Marian's  oak  ! "  she  repeated  in  a  mournful  tone. 
"  How  well  I  recollect  the  stately  tree  ! " 

"  Yes,  and  so  do  I  the  hard  seat  round  the  hollow 
trunk." 

"  And  old  Adam,  too,"  added  Emma  with  spirit 
and  fervour,  drowning  the  melancholy  thoughts,  what- 
ever they  might  be,  which  this  picture  had  conjured 
up,  in  a  brighter  and  a  happier  recollection,  "  the  good 
old  clerk  you  speak  of,  Mrs  Springdale;  dear  old 
Adam,  attaching  himself  to  the  helpless  and  the  young, 
making  the  little  inhabitants  his  peculiar  charge,  and 
keeping  them  together  hke  a  flock,  when  they  would 
otherwise  have  gone  astray.  He  was  a  brave  old  man. 
How  he  would  gather  them  about  that  tree,  and  tell 
them  stories  of  his  own  distant  boyhood,  and  teach 
them  games  long  forgotten  and  out  of  date.  His  was 
a  second  childhood,  a  sound  and  healthy  one,  and 
spent  in  cheerfulness  and  love  with  children,  as  it 
should  be." 

"  Well,"  I  exclaimed,  joining  in,  "  I  do  call  this 
the  most  delightful  occurrence  possible.  How  very 
remarkable  that  you  and  Mrs  Springdale  should  have 
been  at  this  place  together !  If  one  were  to  read  of 
this,  we  shouldn't  believe  it." 


240  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  You  must  come  to  me  very  often,  Mrs  Stukely," 
said  our  hostess,  "  and  we  will  talk  over  old  times  and 
scenes  that  are  so  interesting  to  us  both." 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  I,  "  and  you  must  find  your  way 
up-stairs,  and  take  tea  with  us  too." 

"  Most  happy,"  replied  Mrs  Springdale.  "  We 
must  become  now  very  good  friends." 

"  Emma,"  said  I,  when  we  were  again  alone,  "  that 
Mrs  Springdale  is  a  most  charming  person.  How 
lucky  we  are  to  have  encountered  her.  You  will 
become  very  intimate,  and  our  time  will  pass  as 
pleasantly  as  possible."^ 

"  For  your  sake,  dear  Caleb,"  answered  Emma,  "  I 
am  truly  glad  of  our  good  fortune.  With  this  kind 
woman  I  shall  find  a  home,  whilst  you  pursue  your 
studies  still  in  Cambridge." 

"  What,  dear  ?  " 

"Yes,  Caleb,  in  Cambridge.  Has  it  not  occurred 
to  you  that  this  is  your  natural,  most  immediate  duty  ? 
I  am  proud  of  your  true  affection,  grateful  for  your 
protection.  Shunned  and  despised  by  all  the  world, 
expelled,  disgraced,  I  cannot  forget  how  much  I  owe 
you.  I  should  forget  it  if  I  sacrificed  your  interest 
and  happiness  for  ever."  She  paused.  "  Stukely," 
she  proceeded,  "  you  saw  that  picture,  that  church. 
It  is  no  common  accident  that  brought  it  this  night 
before  my  eyes.  I  looked  at  it,  and  almost  forgot  how 
vile  a  thing  I  am^  I  was  once  innocent,  beloved, 
esteemed.     The  natural  direction  of  this  heart  was 


CALEB  STUKELr.  241 

virtuous.  Why  its  course  was  turned  aside,  Heaven 
knows,  not  I;  Heaven,  who  has  accumulated  in  one 
poor  soul  the  sin  and  punishment  of  generations.  I 
will  not  be  so  selfish  as  to  keep  you  here.  You  must 
return  to  college,  and  reside  there  during  term.  With 
Mrs  Springdale  I  shall  be  happy,  as  happy  as  I  can 
be  when  you  are  away ;  and  writing  often  to  each 
other  will  diminish  the  pain  of  separation." 

"  You  are  a  noble  girl,   dear  Emma,"  I  replied, 

**  and we  will  talk  over  this  to-morrow.     It  is  a 

great  comfort  to  have  so  desirable  a  companion,  and 
I  pray  that  you  may  now  enjoy  a  little  repose  and 
peace." 

"  I  trust  we  may  ! " 

Yes,  but  repose  and  peace,  like  other  articles  in 
great  demand,  are  not  so  easy  of  attainment.  They 
who  have  earned  them  (if  any  earn  them)  by  lawful 
means,  and  intrepid  perseverance,  are  seldom  gratified 
with  more  than  the  consciousness  of  having  merited  a 
recompense  reserved  for  angels.  What  the  easily 
satisfied  world  regards  as  the  repose  of  Error  and  the 
peace  of  Guilty  are  but  the  false  coin  of  hell,  with 
which  the  fiend  bribes  us  for  an  hour  to  forgetfulness 
and  self-neglect. 

About  a  week  after  this  very  satisfactory  tea-party 
— and  our  intimacy  had  advanced  in  geometrical  pro- 
gression ever  since — I  was  met  at  the  street  door  by 
an  individual  whose  face  was  as  familiar  to  me  as  my 

VOL.  I.  X 


212  CALEB  STUKELY. 

own,  but  when,  how,  and  where  I  had  made  its 
acquaintance,  I  could  not  at  the  moment  determine. 
Not  so  the  Face.  It  was  a  bluff  and  impudent 
one,  and  recognized  me  intuitively.  It  grinned  and 
nodded,  "  Morning,  Master  Stukely.  How's  the 
young  'ooman  ? "  Horror !  It  was  Mrs  Bates's 
brother  !  And  he  bounced  without  ceremony  into 
Mrs  Springdale's  parlour  !  What  could  he,  a  market 
gardener,  want  there  ?  What  new  threatening  was 
this?  Emma  mustn't  hear  of  it  for  all  the  world  !" 
I  exclaimed,  gasping  with  the  dread  of  an  impending 
storm.  Our  landlady  vs^s  engaged  "  to  tea"  with  us 
this  very  evening.  "  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  I  with  a 
weak  attempt  at  consolation,  for  if  the  lightning  is  to 
fall,  better  to  come  at  once  than  be  flaming  overhead." 
Emma  had  made  extensive  preparations  for  her  visitor. 
The  finest  gunpowder  had  been  bought  for  the  occa- 
sion. The  tea-cakes  had  been  browned  and  buttered 
to  a  charm.  She  was  about  to  begin  the  toast,  when 
a  message  arrived  from  Mrs  Springdale,  "  W^ho  was 
very  sorry  that  she  couldn't  come  to  tea;  she  was  very 
poorly,  and  had  gone  to  bed." 

"Poor  dear!"  ejaculated  the  unconscious  Emma, 
"  How  very  unfortunate.  Give  my  love,"  she  said, 
turning  to  the  messenger,  "  and  tell  Mrs  Springdale 
that  I'll  see  her  in  the  morning." 

"  Will  you  ?  "  thought  I,  nearly  dropping  from  the 
chair. 

Emma  rose  an  hour  earlier  than  usual  to  pay  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  243 

promised  visit ;  but  she  did  not  see  the  patient,  "  who 
was  not  yet  awake,  and  must  not  be  disturbed." 

"  It  was  very  thoughtless  of  me  to  go  down  so 
early,"  said  Emma,  "  she  will  be  better  after  a  sound 
sleep.     A  slight  cold,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  so." 

"  It  is  very  sudden,  though.  She  did  not  complain 
during  the  day;  she  couldn't  have  felt  the  attack 
coming  on." 

I  wish  from  my  very  soul  that  Emma  could  have  had 
some  hint  of  her  attack,  which  w^as  evidently  coming 
on  with  most  tremendous  strides.  I  had  not  courage 
to  tell  her  of  the  danger.  I  trembled  at  the  prospect 
of  another  concussion — a  fresh  dilaceration  of  her 
scarce-healed  heart.  After  breakfast  she  proceeded 
again  to  Mrs  Springdale's  apartment,  and  again  she 
was  refused  admittance.  "  Mrs  Springdale  could  not 
possibly  receive  visitors.  She  was  not  equal  to  the 
fatigue."  Emma  resumed  her  seat  in  our  own  room, 
with  a  chidden  and  dejected  countenance.  The  servant- 
maid  shortly  afterwards  entered  with  a  note  addressed 
to  me.     It  ran  thus  : — 

''  Sir, — I  have  to  request  that  you  will  provide 
yourself  with  other  apartments  at  your  very  earliest 
convenience.  Your  week  will  be  due  to-morrow,  and 
if  you  will  then  quit  my  house,  I  shall  feel  obliged. 
The  servant  will  render  you  any  service  in  the  removal 
of  your  luggage,  and  in  hastening  your  departure.  I 
must  decline  any  visits  from  the  lady  ;   and  I  cannot, 


244  CALEB  STUKELT. 

in  conclusion,  forbear  expressing  my  extreme  surprise, 
that  a  gentleman  should  so  far  forget  himself,  as  to 
attempt  the  imposition  of  which  you  have  been  guilty. 
I  am,  sir,  your  humble  servant, 

"  Mary  Springdale. 
"  P.S. — You  will  excuse  me  for  adding,  that,   if 
you  have  any  regard  for  your  happiness,  you  will  do 
well  to  leave  the  wicked  and  designing  person,  who, 
from  all  I  hear,  seems  bent  upon  your  ruin." 

Emma  had  taken  the  letter  from  the  girl.  As  soon 
as  the  latter  quitted  the  room,  she  read  it  to  me  aloud. 
She  faltered  and  lost  colour ;  but  of  violent  passion, 
which  I  expected,  and  looked  for  with  the  most  tor- 
turing anxiety,  there  was  not  the  least  appearance. 
She  closed  and  bit  her  lips,  and  from  their  downpressed 
corners  she  extracted  the  convulsed  expression  of  a 
galled  and  wounded  pride. 

Habit  hardens.  Annoyed  as  I  was  by  the  complete 
disruption  of  the  small  social  circle  in  which  I  had 
forespoken  so  much  real  enjoyment,  I  walked  through 
the  streets  of  Huntingdon  in  search  of  another  place 
of  refuge,  without  any  intense  or  visible  emotion.  I 
was,  perhaps,  partly  borne  up  by  the  unlooked  for 
absence  of  all  passionate  expression  on  the  part  of 
Emma,  attributing  such  absence  to  a  growing  apathy, 
and  a  disregard  for  the  world's  opinion,  which,  in 
existing  circumstances,  were  much  to  be  desired.  In 
an  obscure  corner  of  the  town,  I  detected  a  shv-lookinc: 


CALEB  STUKELT.  245 

chemist's  shop,  a  dismal  house  of  drugs,  that  stood, 
ashamed  of  its  condition,  away  from  the  roadside,  rather 
avoiding  than  courting  pubUc  observation.  There  are 
houses,  as  well  as  individuals,  whose  poor  and  down- 
ward-tending looks  bespeak  at  once  their  loss  of 
character,  and  an  utter  hoplessness  in  respect  of  its 
recovery.  Such  a  house  was  this.  From  the  side 
door  I  received  the  information  that  the  private  part 
of  it  was  to  be  let  furnished,  and  that  further  particu- 
lars might  be  gathered  "  from  the  pharmacopolist  in 
the  chemical  laboratory."  "  Here,  at  least,"  thought 
I,  "  we  may  live  without  insult  or  disturbance  :  few 
enquiries  will  be  made  respecting  us,  and  the  proprie- 
tor will  scarcely  stand  on  trifles."  I  walked  into  the 
shop. 

Behind  the  counter,  beneath  a  miserable  account 
of  empty  boxes,  I  saw  a  man  of  middle  height,  very 
corpulent,  very  red,  and,  if  the  silent  talk  of  most 
expressive  features  might  be  trusted,  very  overbear- 
ing. He  had  a  full  and  fish-like  eye,  a  low  receding 
forehead,  a  thick  abnormal  nose,  and  a  mouth  on 
which  conceit  had  sat  for  so  many  years,  that  it  was 
a  human  mouth  no  longer,  but  a  triumphal  arch  of 
flesh,  magnificent  and  broad.  His  hair  concluded  in 
a  bobtail — his  hands  were  clasped  behind  him,  covered 
by  his  skirts.  There  stood  before  this  mighty  man  a 
dozen  miserable  women,  trembling  beggars,  diseased 
in  body,  heart-crushed,  and  starved.  A  few  were 
clothed,  the  majority  were — not  naked — it  is  the  most 


24:6  CALEB  STUKELY. 

that  can  be  said  with  truth !  The  tatters  of  gowns 
which,  when  thoroughly  worn  out,  they  had  first 
received  and  prized  as  treasures,  hung  loosely  about 
their  bodies,  and  scarcely  saved  them  from  exposure. 
Over  the  eyes  of  one,  whom  low  and  bad  living  had 
deprived  of  sight,  there  was  a  deep  covering  of  brown 
paper ;  another,  breathing  hard,  and  owning  a  face  in 
which  the  claims  of  death  were  already  written,  sought 
a  temporary  support  from  the  plastered  wall.  There 
was  a  vacant  chair  which  she  gazed  on  with  a  longing 
eye,  looking  alternately  and  most  imploringly  at  it, 
and  at  the  ruler  of  the  place,  without  whose  gracious 
leave  she  deemed  it  more  than  her  life  was  worth — 
Heaven  knows,  it  was  very  little ! — to  seat  herself  and 
take  her  rest.  A  third  was  lame ;  all  were  touched 
with  some  distemper  that  might  be  traced  to  the  same 
melancholy  cause — to  rife  and  pinching  want.  The 
apothecary,  of  whom  the  whole  number  stood  in 
manifest  dread,  surveyed  his  company  with  a  haughty 
ostentatious  stare,  that  marked  him  at  once  for  an 
impostor.  He  deserted  his  patients  as  soon  as  he 
caught  sight  of  me,  supposing  my  business  of  a  more 
urgent  character.  I  requested  that  the  poor  sufferers 
might  have  his  first  attention. 

"  Oh,  they  can  keep,  sir  ! "  said  the  vainglorious 
man,  "  they  can  keep.  But  as  you  please.  No  1, 
Jenkins^  with  the  oculns" 

An  emaciated  female  here  stepped  forward.  She 
had  a  livid  mark  beneath  her  eye,  the  black  and  blue 


CALEB  STUKELY.  247 

of  a  blow  or  fall.  The  apothecary  frowned,  and 
peered  at  her  mysteriously  from  many  points  of  view. 
"  Do  you  know  the  art  and  science  ?  "  he  enquired, 
turning  at  length  to  me. 

"  I  do  not,  sir." 

"  This  is  a  treat,  then,  that  you  can't  enjoy.  I 
could  admire  it  for  ever.  A  lovely  colour! — pity  it 
should  ever  fade.  The  learned  call  it  Ikey  Moses. 
It's  a  perfect  case.     How's  your  husband,  Jenkins  ?  " 

The  patient  shook  her  head. 

"  Still* suffering  from  alcohol? — eh — speak  out." 

"  He's  very  bad,  sir,"  said  the  poor  creature,  and 
then  entered  upon  a  long,  sad  history  of  domestic 
tyranny  and  dissipation. 

"  There's  your  aqueous  liquid,"  exclaimed  the 
chemist,  interrupting  her.  "  Wash  the  part,  his  vel 
ter  quotidie,  every  now  and  then.  Sevenpence.  Now, 
Mrs  Wiggins,  No.  2.  Here's  a  case,  sir,  that  would 
have  puzzled  Hippocrates.  The  doctor  round  the 
corner  calls  it  acute  Phlebitus.  Bah  !  Stuff  and 
nonsense.     Bughitus,  just  as  likely." 

Mrs  Wiggins  took  the  place  of  Mrs  Jenkins,  who 
had  departed  with  her  lotion.  The  present  invalid 
was  suffering  from  exhaustion — she  was  famished. 

"  Now  listen  to  the  diagnostics,"  remarked  the  man 
of  science,  pointing  to  me  with  his  extended  arm. 

"  Wiggins,  what  do  you  feel  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  sinking  ! "  moaned  the  sufferer. 

«  No  plethora  ?  " 


248  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  No  what,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  forgot ! "  said  the  questioner,  blushing  like  a 
clever  man  at  his  mistake. 

"  We  must  descend.  Poor  ignorama  !  Don't  you 
feel  very  full,  Wiggins  ?  Stop  !  Before  you  answer, 
think  a  little  ;  that's  my  plan  of  treatment." 

"  Indeed  I  don't,  sir,"  answered  the  hungry  wretch. 

"  Wonderful  instance  of  self-delusion  !  A  fresh  phe- 
nomenon.   Mark  it  down.    Wiggins,  you  eat  too  much." 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  sir ! "  exclaimed  the  woman 
with  surprise. 

"  You  do — don't  say 'you  don't.  I  must  phleboto- 
mize you  into  abstinence  !  What  have  you  eaten  to- 
day?" 

"  Nothing,  sir  ! " 

"  And  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Some  bread  and  water,  sir  ! " 

The  chemist  paused — then  with  his  thumb  and 
finger  slowly  stroked  his  chin. 

"  This  is  remarkable.  Symptoms  cutting  both 
ways.  Who  shall  say  it  isn't  loss  of  appetitus  ?  Let 
us  tack  about.  Now,  Wiggins,  mark.  You  don't 
sleep  at  night  ?  " 

"  Very  little  sometimes." 

"  That  will  do — that's  a  symptom.  Look  at  nie. 
You  feel  you-don't-know-howish  ?  " 

«  T  think  I  do,  sir." 

"  Come,  Wiggins,  none  of  that.  You  are  siire  you 
do.     A  sinking  in  the  stomach  now  and  then — eh  ?  " 


C.1LEB  STUKELr.  249 

"  Yes,  sir,  continually." 

"  What — I've  clenched  it,  have  I  ?  The  animal 
wants  tone,  sir.  We  must  wind  her  up.  Wiggins,  this 
is  serious.  We  must  draught  you.  Take  a  haustus — 
that's  Latin  for  a  mouthful.  Repetitur  quotidie — repeat 
it  night  and  morning.  One  and  twopence — get  it 
ready." 

"  I'm  not  worth  a  single  farthing,  sir." 
"  Wiggins,  you  are  an  incurable.  Physic's  thrown 
away  upon  you.  Go,  inhale  the  fresh  and  bracing  air. 
Walker,  No.  3."  And  Mrs  Wiggins  crawled  away 
ashamed,  and  Mrs  Walker,  No.  3,  advanced  to  the 
bashaw.  In  a  similar  manner  he  prescribed  for  all. 
To  such  as  could  scrape  together  the  required  pence, 
his  medicines  were  a  panacea;  the  extreme  pauper 
was  pronounced  incurable,  and  was  discharged  accord- 
ingly. In  a  little  time  the  shop  was  cleared.  The 
scene,  however,  had  lasted  long  enough  to  effect  a 
gradual  forgetfulness  of  my  own  condition,  and  to 
oppress  me  with  a  lively  sense  of  others'  woes. 

"  Such  is  business,"  said  the  apothecary,  addressing 
me,  his  only  auditor.  "  No  time  to  lose  in  our  pro- 
fession. Patients  must  be  healed,  currente  calomel,  as 
we  doctors  say.  Wherein,  sir,  can  I  serve  you  ?  To 
the  last  page  of  the  Pharmacopoeia  you  shall  com- 
mand me." 

I  told  my  business,  and  I  thought  the  garrulous 
and  offensive  man  would  never  cease  to  praise  his 
rooms   and   furniture.     "  His   house   was   suited   to 


250  CALEB  STUKELY. 

professionals — had  been  fitted  up  for  his  own  private 
residence,  with  no  ulterior  view  to  lodgers.  Lodgers, 
as  such,  w^ere  his  abhorrence,  But  he  was  man — the 
social  being  in  the  creative  scheme — unwed,  and  he 
longed  to  feel  society  about  him.  As  friends  he  would 
receive  us ;  not  else.  The  fee  for  the  apartments  was 
a  secondary  matter.  He  did  not  let  to  make  by  them. 
He  hoped  that  his  high  standing  acquitted  him  of  that 
Thank  Heaven,  who  had  made  him  so  essential  to  his 
fellow -creatures,  he  was  above  suspicion  !  But  he 
must  have  friends ;  it  was  a  human  weakness,  and  he 
submitted."  The  rooms^were  dark  and  low — the  fur- 
niture most  mean — the  rent  unreasonably  high ;  but 
I  agreed  to  take  the  place.  It  was  a  quiet  home  for 
Emma — that  was  all  I  needed.  Having  arranged  the 
terms,  I  left  the  shop,  my  spirits  burdened,  T  knew 
not  why — my  mind  stirred  up  and  troubled,  I  asked 
not  wherefore. 

The  same  evening  Emma  and  I  took  possession. 
I  had  requested  in  the  morning  that  a  fire  should  be 
lighted,  and  all  things  made  comfortable,  previous  to 
the  arrival  of  the  lady  ;  but  as  it  often  happens,  w  here 
promises  are  large  and  statements  highly  coloured, 
there  was  a  falling  off  in  the  performance.  Mr,  or,  as 
his  pauper-patients  styled  him,  Doctor  Weezen,  rated 
the  servant  child,  (the  sole  domestic  of  the  house, 
innocent  of  her  fourteenth  year,)  and  scolded  her  for 
her  neglect,  in  a  harangue  that  would  have  sounded 
better  had  it  been  delivered  to  a  company  of  soldiers. 


CALEB  stui?:ely.  251 

He  then  apologized  to  Emma,  and  told  her  that  an  esta- 
bUshment  was  the  most  oppressive  thing  in  life,  and  that 
domestic  cares  had  wellnigh  been  too  much  for  Socrates. 
First  impressions,  whether  true  or  false,  are  danger- 
ous if  unfavourable.  No  after  knowledge,  no  wise 
experience,  can  efface  entirely  the  sad  complexion  that 
is  spread  abroad  with  the  first  shock  of  sensibility. 
Without  exertion,  and  in  an  instant,  in  a  breath,  the 
quick  and  heated  fancy  is  impressed.  Years  of  en- 
deavour will  not  wear  away  the  form.  When  we 
stepped  into  the  cold  and  joyless  rooms,  Emma  invo- 
luntarily recoiled.  I  shared  the  impulse  which  had 
moved  her,  and  was  sensible  that  we  had  made  a 
downward  step.  Dismal  conceptions  filled  my  mind, 
at  once  disturbed,  distressed  it,  bore  upon  it  with  the 
force  of  incuU.  I  made  an  effort  to  shake  them  off*. 
They  relaxed  not.  Incoherent  apprehensions,  not  to 
be  disdained,  mystical  shadows  though  ye  be,  ye  are 
the  invisible  but  certain  harbingers  of  real  and  fast- 
approaching  misery  !  Gratifying  as  the  unconcerned- 
ness  of  Emma  had  been  upon  the  receipt  of  Mrs 
Springdale's  letter,  I  was  very  sorry  to  observe  that 
her  exemption  from  violent  emotion  seemed  not  only 
likely  to  continue,  but  to  merge,  at  last  into  a  settled 
melancholy.  For  a  fortnight  we  had  occupied  Doctor 
Weezen's  rooms,  and  during  tliat  time  she  made  no 
effort  to  rally,  evinced  no  desire  to  be  roused  from  the 
moody  and  desponding  state  into  which  she  had  gi'a- 
dually  fallen.     Day  after  day  she  would  sit,  for  a  time 


252  CALEB  STUKELY. 

needle  in  hand,  looking  at,  rather  than  pursuing  her 
work ;  then  she  would  suddenly  put  it  aside  and  muse, 
resting  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  cheek  upon  her 
hand,  smiling  perhaps,  and  so  bitterly,  that  it  chilled 
me  to  stand  by  and  witness  it.  I  tried  every  manoeuvre 
that  affection  could  suggest,  to  divert  and  cheer  her ; 
but  my  office  was  a  thankless  one.  One  day,  after  I 
had  talked  for  half  an  hour,  with  a  gayety  that  almost 
choked  me,  from  the  exertion  which  was  required  to 
force  it  up,  she  sat  as  gloomy  and  as  silent  as  ever ; 
and  the  only  acknowledgment  I  got,  was  a  fixed  stare, 
and  a  pitiful  shake  of  tKe  head. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  Emma  ! "  I  said  at  length,  with  a 
truly  miserable  sigh,  "  this  is  dreadful  work.  I  shall 
go  out  of  my  mind,  that  will  be  the  end  of  it ;  and  if 
this  is  to  last,  I  don't  care  how  soon.  Little  did  I 
think  that  all  our  happiness  was  to  end  in  this  !  " 
"  Are  you  unhappy,  then  ?  "  enquired  Emma. 
"  Am  I !     I  never  was  so  wretched  in  my  life.     I 

have  given  up  every  thing  for  you  Emma,  and  " 

"  I  know  it !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  and  you  repent  it. 
Why  have  you  not  said  so  before  ?  You  believe  tJiat 
woman,  and  you  hate  me.  Let  me  leave  you.  Let 
tlie  icicked  and  designincf  icretch  depart  !  "  And  she 
rose  from  her  chair  in  great  agitation. 

"  Emma,  you  are  greatly  to  blame  for  talking  in  this 
way.  Whatever  people  may  have  said,  I  am  sure  I 
have  always  treated  you  with  great  kindness.  The 
harsh  usage  of  others  has  made  me  love  you  the  more." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  253 

"  I  would  that  I  were  dead  I "  she  cried,  "  desolate 
outcast  that  I  am  !  Do  not  mind  me,  Stukely — do 
not  listen  to  me.    I  feel  that  I  am  ungrateful  to  you." 

"  Dearest  Emma  !  you  are  not  ungrateful.  I  do  not 
uphraid  yon.  But  why  should  we  have  these  inter- 
ruptions to  our  happiness  ?  If  you  will  but  smile,  and 
look  cheerful,  and  live  as  we  used  at  Mrs  Springdale's, 
every  thing  will  go  on  well.  I  am  sure,  for  this  last 
week,  my  life  has  been  a  burden  to  me.  How  can  I 
possibly  keep  up  my  spirits,  whilst  you  are  sad  and 
mournful,  and  close  your  lips  against  me  ?  " 

"  Dear  Caleb ! "  exclaimed  Emma,  bursting  into 
tears,  which  fell  before  me  like  a  refreshing  shower, 
"  return  to  Cambridge.  Be  happy.  Leave  me.  Let 
me  go  into  the  world — the  cruel,  cruel  world,  and  beg 
my  bread  from  door  to  door,  and  be  refused.  Let  me 
starve  and  die ;  but  do  not  let  them  say  that  I  have 
been  your  ruin  and  destruction." 

"  You  think  too  much  of  these  things,  dear.  Let 
them  say  what  they  please.  Nothing  can  afflict  me,  if 
you  will  only  be  merry  and  gay.  What  a  pity  it  is  we 
haven't  a  pianoforte  here  ?  A  little  music  would  set 
every  thing  to  rights — delicious  music !  We  must 
hire  one  if  we  can.  Come,  smile  and  look  bright,  as 
you  know  how.     There's  a  dear  Emma  !  " 

"  But  about  Cambridge,  Caleb  ?  " 

"  Well  then,  dear,  I  promise  you,  if  you  will  put  a 
good  face  upon  matters,  and  become  immediately  the 
sweet,  good-tempered  Emma  whom  I  used  to  know,  I 


254  CALEB  STUKllLY. 

will  not  let  another  day  pass  without  fixing  a  time  for 
my  return." 

You  have  seen  the  sun,  upon  a  spring  day,  breaking 
through  the  jealous  clouds  which  shut  out  the  vault  of 
heaven,  and  intercept  the  adoring  heart  of  man.  You 
have  seen,  I  say,  and  felt  the  power  of  the  gush  of 
liquid  light  that  made,  for  one  brief  interval,  the  sober 
earth  to  smile,  and  passed,  like  joy,  into  the  secret 
caverns  of  your  soul.  How  transient  is  the  gleam  ! 
How  hastily  do  the  murky  clouds  unite  again,  with 
more  compactness  than  before,  and  quench  that  joy 
and  smile  !  Thus  evanescent,  but  with  such  potency, 
did  the  sparkling  eyes  of  her  I  loved,  and  madly  loved, 
send  forth  again  its  rays,  to  console  and  cheer  me. 
Thus  quickly  did  the  unwholesome  vapours  of  her 
mind  extinguish  them. 

Unable  to  remain  in  her  presence  not  touched  by 
her  condition,  and  fearful  of  adding  to  her  melancholy 
by  advice  and  entreaties  which  in  no  way  removed  her 
cause  of  suffering,  I  left  her  on  the  following  morning, 
in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  despair,  and  without 
knowing  whither  to  direct  my  steps.  I  walked  me- 
chanically into  the  laboratory  of  Doctor  Weezen. 
He  received  me  very  graciously,  explained  to  me, 
with  much  magniloquence,  the  properties  and  pe- 
culiar virtues  of  his  medicines ;  and,  after  a  most 
abstruse  and  learned  disquisition  on  the  healing  art 
in  general,  he  told  me  that  it  was  time  to  see  his 
patients,  and  how  proud  he'd  feel  if  I  would  kindly 


CALEB  STUKELY.  255 

bear  him  company.  The  Doctor,  as  a  man,  I  heartily 
disUked — his  skill  and  knowledge  I  regarded  with  con- 
tempt. I  accepted  his  invitation  nevertheless,  and  did 
not  scruple,  upon  our  way,  to  beg  a  remedy  for  an  habi- 
tual gloomy  state  of  mind. 

"  Or,  as  we  should  say,  in  technic  parlance,  «  a 
superabundance  of  black  bile.'  I  am  afraid,  sir,  it's  a 
case  for  Bedlam.  It's  not  professional  to  recommend 
the  bastinado ;  and  yet  there  is  nothing  like  a  cudgel 
to  cure  a  melancholy.  A  dose  or  two  I've  known 
restore  the  mental  equilibrium.  At  Bedlam,  it's  the 
standard  recipe.  Is  the  patient  young  ?  " 
"  Not  very  old,  sir." 

"  Then  you  have  a  chance  of  cure.  When  an  old 
head  gets  dull  and  flabby,  tonics  are  thrown  away  upon 
it." 

With  similar  profound  remarks,  Dr  Weezen  enter- 
tained me,  as  we  passed  from  den  to  den.  His  patients 
were  a  most  destitute  and  squalid  troop,  holding  life  on 
terms  that  made  it  scarcely  worth  possession.  Doctor 
Weezen  evidently  thought  so.  His  mode  of  treatment 
was  in  conformity  with  this  idea,  and,  more  than  any 
other  thing,  was  calculated  to  lighten  speedily  the  bur- 
den of  existence.  Henceforward,  I  repeated  daily  my 
visits,  in  company  with  the  fussy  doctor ;  and  daily  did 
I  witness  scenes  of  exquisite,  unmitigated  suffering, 
whose  naked,  horrid  aspect  would  have  shocked  and 
driven  me  back,  had  it  not  elicited,  in  mercy,  a  spark 
of  human  fellow-feeling,  by  whose  light  I  was  directed 


250  CALEB  STUKELY. 

into  usefulness.  Many  of  the  unfortunate  needed 
bread  more  than  physic ;  and  I  suppUed  them,  as  far 
as  I  was  able,  with  the  means  of  getting  it.  More 
than  one  poor  wretch  looked  at  me  with  a  vacant  eye, 
doubtful  of  the  act  of  charity,  and  took  the  offering 
without  a  word  of  thanks.  The  warm  heart  of  bene- 
volence had  never  taught  them  the  language  of  grati- 
tude, and  they  might  be  pardoned  if  they  were  ignorant 
of  its  expression. 

Privileged  in  being  the  instrument  of  good,  and  busy 
now  from  day  to  day,  I  felt  less  acutely  than  before 
the  continued  mournfuTness  of  Emma.  But  time  wore 
on.  Returning  from  my  walks,  I  met  no  glistening 
and  love-telling  eye  of  welcome — no  tongue  to  ask  a 
hundred  unimportant  questions — unimportant  in  them- 
selves, but  most  significant  of  the  ardent,  true  affection. 
All  was  silence  and  despondency.  The  cause  I  knew 
not,  could  not  learn.  Often  I  asked,  and  a  repulsive 
sigh  was  then  the  only  answer.  Could  it  be  sullenness 
and  a  dislike  of  me  ?  I  saw  no  reason  for  suspicion  ; 
but  my  pride  took  fire,  and  a  thought  of  anger  started 
in  my  mind — one  smarting  thought — it  was  the  first, 
and  love  corrected  and  suppressed  it.  But  this  mo- 
roseness  was  not  the  only  change  that  had  taken  place 
in  Emma.  Her  health  was  yielding  before  the  influ- 
ences of  this  cherished  care,  this  ever-gnawing  trouble. 
Within  a  month,  her  once  lovely  countenance  had 
undergone  a  transformation  that  confounded  and 
alarmed  me.      The   delicate    complexion,    that   fair, 


CALEB  STUKELY.  2ol 

transparent  hue,  had  vanished.  A  coarseness  had 
grown  over  and  encrusted  it.  What  sickness  could 
have  effected  the  silent,  hideous  alteration  ?  Her  clear 
and  lustrous  eye,  that  bewitching  eye,  in  whose  fairy 
cell  had  lurked  the  philtre  that  had  first  enchanted  me, 
had  lost  its  brilliant  sheen,  had  parted  with  its  dignity 
and  power.  "  What  illness  of  the  mind,"  I  asked 
again,  "  can  rob  the  organ  of  its  purer  part,  leaving  to 
us  this  heavy,  dull,  and  watery  orb  ?  "  Her  face  was 
turgid — her  slender  and  most  graceful  form  encum- 
bered with  a  fast  increasing,  unbecoming  fulness. 
Daily,  almost  hourly,  I  saw  the  gradual  change,  and 
stood  amazed  and  horror-stricken  The  longer  I 
gazed  upon  the  fading  beauty,  the  more  offensive  and 
unpardonable  did  I  deem  her  melancholy  and  unsocial 
manner — the  more  lively  did  I  feel  the  injury  she  in- 
flicted— the  greater  seemed  the  sacrifice  that  I  had 
made  for  unrequited  love.  A  second  thought  of 
anger  started  in  my  brain ;  but  love  was  less  awake  to 
treason  than  before,  and  made  no  effort  to  destroy  it. 
I  sat  alone  one  evening.  Emma  had  retired  to  rest. 
I  still  reflected  on  her  odd  behaviour,  her  unaccount- 
able neglect.  "  For  it  is  neglect,"  I  said,  "  and, 
worse  than  that,  ingratitude.  She  is  strangely  altered 
in  her  person  !  Who  could  believe  that  this  is  Emma 
whom  I  knew  three  months  ago  ?  How  fast  does 
beauty  fade  !  But  this  is  nothing — at  least,  it  is' 
very  little  compared  with  her  offence.  She  cannot 
be  accountable  for  that.     I  never  loved  her  for  her 

VOL.  I.  Y 


258  CALEB  STUKELY. 

face  alone.  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  loved  her  rather  for — 
for — but  it  does  not  matter  now,  her  treatment  of  me  is 
intolerable — and  it  has  made  me  most  unhappy.  What 
have  I  not  given  up  for  her?  Ah,  what  indeed!" 
And  I  rose  from  my  chair,  and  paced  the  room  in 
perturbation.  "  I  must  not  think  of  it."  A  sudden 
rush  upon  my  conscience  of  desperate  thoughts  that 
had  long  been  chained  in  sleep  by  Passion,  (now 
imprisoned  and  enslaved  herself,)  and  whose  violence 
was  all  the  stronger  for  the  previous  slumber,  almost 
overthrew  my  reason.  I  stood  still  with  terror. 
"  Good  Heaven  ! "  I  Exclaimed,  "  whither  have  I 
been  wandering  ?  What  will  they  think  at  Home  ?  O 
God  !  my  father  !  my  poor  mother  !  She  will  break 
her  heart.  What  will  they  think  of  me  ?  I  must 
go  back  to  Cambridge.  In  a  few  days  my  furniture 
will  be  taken  from  me  if  that  fearful  bill  is  not  duly 
paid.  Where  can  I  get  a  hundred  pounds  ?  What 
shall  I  do  ?  O  Emma,  Emma  !  have  I  deserved  that 
you  should  heap  these  coals  of  fire  upon  my  head  ? 
I'll  not  permit  another  day  to  close  upon  me  without 
some  step.  What  is  best  to  do  ?  I'll  write — no — 
I'll  return  to  London.  How  unfortunate  I  have 
been  !  Why  have  I  been  singled  out  for  all  this  trial 
and  affliction?  Oh,  that  delectable  scholarship !  From 
the  moment  that  I  swore  to  have  it,  I  was  doomed. 
I  must  do  something.  Let  me  think  quietly.  Shall 
I  set  out  immediately  for  Cambridge,  or  go  home  ?  I 
haven't  a  single  friend  to  advise  me.     I  never  had  a 


CALEB  STUKELY.  259 

youthful  friend  like  other  boys.  Every  thing  has 
been  against  me.  Well,  I  think  I  had  better  go  to 
Cambridge  first — see  Levy,  and  then  hasten  to  my 
father,  and  supplicate  his  pardon.  I  am  sure  he  will 
pity  and  forgive  me,  and  I  must  do  better  for  the 
future.  I'll  pack  up  my  things  at  once.  In  the 
morning,  I'll  take  leave  of  Emma.  Ah,  Emma ! 
What  is  to  be  done  with  her?  Poor  creature,  she 
must  not  be  cast  away  !  She  shall  suggest  a  plan. 
She  has  insisted  upon  my  leaving  her.  What  a 
comfort  that  it  is  her  own  request !  It  would  be 
madness  to  refuse  compliance  with  it."  With  such 
vague  talk  I  endeavoured  to  discharge  the  horrible 
conceptions  of  my  mind,  and  I  at  last  succeeded. 
Before  I  went  to  bed  I  collected  all  my  moveables, 
and  made  every  preparation  for  a  departure  on  the 
morrow.  "  I  am  sure  that  I  have  concluded  wisely," 
I  whispered  to  myself.  "  I  feel  so  peaceful  and  so 
satisfied — my  heart  seems  so  m.uch  lighter."  I  proposed 
to  announce  my  resolution  as  soon  as  we  arose.     The 

morning  came,  and  then 1  thought  it  better  to 

postpone  the  momentous  communication  until  the 
evening.  The  excitement  of  the  previous  night  had 
left  me  very  nervous,  and  my  courage  threatened  to 
desert  me.  One  day  can't  make  the  difference,"  said 
I,  "  and  I  shall  be  more  comfortable  by  and  by : 
when  the  shutters  are  closed,  and  one  is  sitting  by  the 
fire,  things  are  managed  so  much  better.  I  can  bring 
out  the  subject  by  degrees,  without  the  fear  of  startling 


2r50  CALEB  STUKELT. 

her,  and  the  risk  of  ruining  my  scheme.  Nothing 
shall  prevent  my  quitting  Huntingdon  to-morrow — 
that  is  certain." 

With  the  double  object  of  paying  a  pour  prendre 
conge  visit  to  my  diseased  acquaintances,  and  of 
extracting  vigour  from  the  fresh  and  limpid  air,  I 
left  my  lodging  at  a  very  early  hour.  The  prospect 
of  a  speedy  termination  of  my  present  mode  of  life 
acted  favourably  upon  my  spirits ;  I  talked  with 
sprightliness,  and  briskly  moved  about,  and  was  half 
persuaded  that  I  had  become  a  very  virtuous  cha- 
racter, and  deserving  of  much  sympathy  and  praise. 
The  invalids  received  a  double  portion  of  their  small 
allowance.  I  gave  them  in  addition  some  excellent 
counsel,  (which  might  have  been  of  service  to  myself;) 
then,  wishing  them  a  quick  recovery,  a  richer  and  a 
better  friend,  I  shook  them  all  severally  and  warmly 
by  the  hand,  and  left  them  to  their  dismal  meditations. 
It  was  late  when  I  returned.  I  walked  before  the 
door  some  dozen  times,  to  gather  round  my  heart  the 
necessary  stimulus.  Having  goaded  myself  sufficiently 
with  thoughts  of  duty — unkind  treatment — altered 
nature,  (taking  particular  care  the  while  to  shut  out 
all  incitements  on  the  score  of  altered  beauii/,)  I 
stopped  at  length,  and  walked  softly  up  the  staircase. 

At  the  very  moment  of  my  entering  the  apartment, 
Emma,  with  a  hasty  and  disordered  action,  rose,  as  it 
appeared,  immediately  from  the  floor,  and  sat  herself 
with  violence  and  precipitation  at  the  table.     She  was 


CALEB  STUKELY.  261 

greatly  agitated — her  cheek  was  flustered — her  eye 
glaring  with  a  wild  besotted  look.  I  w^as  transfixed 
with  terror.  What  ailed  her  ?  I  would  have  asked 
the  question;  but  as  I  moved  towards  her  for  the 
purpose,  she  set  her  teeth  together  and  repelled  me 
with  a  horrible  unearthly  laugh.  I  glanced  beneath 
the  table  to  discover,  if  possible,  the  reason  of  her 
first  strange  movement.  For  an  instant,  I  burned 
-with,  jealousy  I  She  marked  me,  and  anticipating  my 
design,  darted  thither,  and  crouched  like  one  possessed. 
Quick  as  was  her  motion,  she  failed  to  conceal  what', 
as  it  appeared  in  sight,  sickened  and  dismayed  me. 
Half  hidden  by  her  sweeping  garments,  there  revealed 
itself — a  bottle  of  the  accursed  wine  received  from 
Levy  !  What  a  history  did  it  tell !  Frightful,  har- 
rowing   exhibition  !      Miserable    woman  ! — Debased 

beyond   the  power  of  recovery.     Intoxicated 

Lost  ! 

"  Emma,"  I  said,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  "  what  is 
the  meaning  of  all  this — this  drink  ?" 

"Drink!"  she  replied  in  a  hysteric  voice,  "ay, 
sir,  I  learnt  it  of  my  father.  We  have  died  of  it 
for  centuries.  It  has  killed  a  whole  churchyard  of 
us.  When  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  sober  Harring- 
ton ?  Never  since  the  flood."  And  she  screamed  a 
madman's  laugh.  Mad  in  truth  she  was.  I  sought 
to  pacify  her ;  but  she  furiously  repulsed  me,  vowed 
she  did  not  know  me,  and  commanded  me  to  be  gone, 
to  leave  her  presence,  and  not  disturb  the  banquet. 


2G2  CALEB  STUKELY. 

When  she  found  me  still  remaining,  she  surveyed 
me  with  contempt,  and  then  proudly  paced  the  room, 
muttering,  as  she  went,  about  her  station,  and  the 
disrespect  that  mortals  paid  her.  There  was  a  vicious 
drift  about  her  eye,  which,  as  I  met  it,  quailed  and 
frightened  me.  It  spoke  a  malicious  and  deter- 
mined will,  and  exposed  the  exclusive  deadly  privilege 
of  icine.  Illustrious  beverage  !  The  meaner  liquors 
only  unfit  us  for  exertion.  It  is  your  higher  boast  to 
ripen  us  for  crime  ! — Now  it  was  that  previous  symp- 
toms, mysterious  and  inexplicable  when  they  arose, 
were  interpreted  and  m-ade  clear.  Now  the  shaking  of 
the  hand,  the  loss  of  appetite,  the  sinking  of  the  spirits, 
the  general  torpor  and  depression  of  the  frame,  were 
traced  to  their  disgraceful  origin.  Now  I  beheld  the 
insidious  and  tremendous  power  that  had  stripped  and 
triumphed  over  human  loveliness.  Seductive  poison, 
most  malignant  juice,  thy  victory  was  unequivocal ! 
I  acknowledged  it,  and  trembled. 

The  violence  of  Emma  increased  with  every  passing 
minute.  She  talked  and  raved  until  she  lashed  her- 
self to  fury.  My  presence  exasperated  and  made 
hotter  the  brain  that  was  on  fire  already.  I  could 
accomplish  nothing  by  remaining  in  the  room.  In  a 
state  of  distraction  I  quitted  it,  with  the  forlorn  hope 
of  effecting  something  by  my  absence.  I  hastened  to 
the  "  chemical  laboratory,'^  and  threw  myself  into  the 
arms  of  Doctor  Weezen  with  as  much  warmth  and 
affection  as  if  he  had  been  my  dearest  friend  in  life. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  263 

Intense  misery  makes  any  one  look  amiable,  especially 
if  any  one  can  be  of  service  to  us.  "  Oh,  my  dear 
Doctor ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  help  me,  I  am  a  wretched 
being." — "  Sorry  for  you,"  said  the  chemist,  eschew- 
ing the  embrace  as  politely  as  he  could,  "  but  I  am  as 
poor  as  Job  just  now.  How  very  odd  !  I  was  just 
agoing  to  ask  you  for  the  rent.  Patients  falling  oif 
uncommon  fast.  This  is  very  staggering,  Mr 
Stukely." 

''  It  isn't  money  that  I  want.  My  poor  girl !  what 
can  be  done  for  her  ?     She  is  in  a  dreadful  state." 

"  Oh,  bless  my  heart ! "  replied  the  gentleman  in  a 
different  tone.  "  You  don't  mean  that»  I  had  no 
idea  it  was  so  near.  But,  my  dear  sir,  don't  alarm 
yourself,  'tis  a  very  common  case  with  ladies.  Your 
first,  I  guess  ?  Well,  that  accounts  for  your  anxiety. 
You'll  be  quieter  when  you  have  had  a  dozen."  As 
the  doctor  spoke,  Emma's  foot  was  heard  loudly  and 
quickly  stamping  overhead.  There  was  a  murmur  of 
her  voice — a  rapid  walking  up  and  down,  and  a  violent 
slamming  of  the  door.  Then  all  was  silent.  "  Awful 
hysteria,  isn't  it  ?"  enquired  the  doctor,  looking  serious 
and  surprised.  "  But  it  is  symptomatic.  Nothing 
frightens  me  when  I  know  it  is  symptomatic.  Don't 
you  be  frightened,  my  good  young  friend." 

"  I  waited  half  an  hour  with  Dr  Weezen,  deter- 
mined, if  the  noise  was  heard  again,  to  communicate 
the  sad  discovery,  and  to  avail  myself  of  his  advice  in 
the  emergency.     But  the  clamour  was  not  rei)oatcd. 


204  CALEB  STUKELT. 

At  the  close  of  the  half-hour  all  was  silent  still.  I 
promised  the  doctor  to  call  him  up  should  his  ser- 
vices be  required;  the  doctor  promised  me  that  he 
wouldn't  take  off  his  boots,  much  less  go  to  bed,  and 
then  I  stole  timorously  to  my  room  again.  The  door 
was  closed,  not  locked.  I  gently  opened  it,  and  en- 
tered. The  apartment  was  in  darkness.  I  called  to 
Doctor  Weezen  in  a  whisper  for  a  light,  which  he 
brought,  and  then  I  found  that  Emma  had  departed. 
I  dare  not  say  that  an  over-hasty  conclusion  which  I 
formed — viz.,  that  she  had  run  away  for  ever — afforded 
me  a  gleam  of  inexpressible  relief!  Our  bedroom 
WRS  on  the  second  floor;  thither  I  proceeded.  As  I 
drew  near  sounds  reached  my  ear  again,  and  fell  like 
cold  and  heavy  marble  on  my  heart.  She  had  fastened 
the  door,  was  gabbling  loud  and  incoherently,  slapping 
her  hands,  and  beating  the  ground  with  her  foot.  In 
a  word,  she  was  madder  than  ever. 

I  sat  upon  the  stairs  before  the  bedroom  door,  bit- 
terly regretting  that  I  had  not  been  born  an  Israelite 
in  the  days  of  Pharaoh,  King  of  Egypt,  under  whose 
mild  and  benevolent  policy  the  little  Hebrew  children 
were  destroyed  as  soon  as  they  saw  the  light.  "  It  is 
quite  certain,"  said  I,  "  that  I  am  the  most  unfortu- 
nate wretch  in  the  creation.  I  am  crossed  in  every 
thing.  What  a  terrible  upset  is  this  !  Just  hark  at 
her !  Oh  dear,  dear,  dear !  it's  a  pretty  business 
altogether.  Any  one  but  myself,"  I  continued,  solilo- 
quizing, "  would  leave  her  this  very  night,  and  really 


CALEB  STUKELY.  265 

she  half  deserves  it.  But  that,  I  suppose,  would  be 
considered  wrong.  I  owe  a  duty  to  my  parents  cer- 
tainly. Bless  me,  I  wonder  how  they  are  !  What 
can  they  think  of  my  long  silence  ?  Emma  cannot 
have  a  claim  upon  me  after  what  has  happened.  I 
have  a  good  mind  to  go."  And  I  got  up ;  but  at  that 
moment,  Emma,  seized  with  a  sudden  paroxysm,  burst 
into  tears,  and  the  voice  recalled  so  many  dear  asso- 
ciations, was  so  very  like  the  voice  of  Emma  in  our 
early  days  of  love,  that  the  gradually  hardening  heart 
gave  way,  and  straight  was  malleable  for  any  thing.  1 
resumed  my  seat.  During  the  succeeding  hour  or 
two,  I  knocked  many  times  against  the  door;  first 
softly,  then  harder,  and  at  last  with  violence,  but  an 
inhuman  laugh  or  yell  was  the  sole  acknowledgment 
of  my  application.  The  strength  of  the  poor  creature 
was,  however,  failing  fast.  The  intervals  of  repose 
were  longer,  her  footsteps  much  less  heavy,  her  excla- 
mations not  half  so  forcible.  I  resolved  to  wait  until 
exhaustion  restored  her  reason,  and  I  could  make  her 
sensible  of  her  mournful  situation.  It  was  about  three 
o'clock  that  I  made  this  final  resolution,  when  I  had 
become  very  chilly  and  depressed  with  cold.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  I  could  keep  watch  better  if  I 
were  more  warmly  clad.  Accordingly,  I  procured  my 
great-coat  from  the  sitting-room,  covered  myself  with 
it  and  a  yard  or  two  of  thick  stair  matting,  took  my 
position  once  more  upon  the  stairs,  and  then  imme- 
diately fell  fast  asleep. 

VOL.  L  z 


2G0  CALEB  STtJKELY. 

I  awoke  about  eight  o'clock  from  a  dream  so  dread- 
fully horrid,  that  the  satisfaction  I  derived  from  its 
being  unreal,  actually  reconciled  me  for  a  time  to  my 
only  less  horrible  and  true  condition.  I  did  not  hear 
a  movement  in  the  house.  Silence  was  in  the  bed- 
room. I  tried  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  it  yielded 
to  the  gentle  touch.  I  entered,  and  on  tiptoe  glided 
to  the  bed.  Emma  was  sitting  up  awake.  She  cast 
upon  me  one  brief  gaze  of  mingled  grief  and  shame, 
and  then  the  pale,  debauched,  and  haggard  counte- 
nance dropped  in  dejection  on  her  bosom.  She  did 
not  speak  ;  I  did  not  reproach  her.  For  many  hours 
she  continued  in  a  state  of  mental  numbness,  and  I 
was  constant  to  her  side.  At  length,  tow^ards  evening, 
she  fixed  upon  me  steadily  her  sluggish  and  cavernous 
eye,  clasped  tremblingly  my  wrist,  and  in  the  low  half- 
whispering  voice  of  vanquished  modesty,  implored  me 
to  obtain  for  her  a  draught  of  wine. 

"  You  know  not  what  you  ask  for,  Emma,"  I  re- 
plied. "  Bid  me  get  for  you  some  deadly  poison  or  a 
dagger.  You  might  use  both  with  equal  prudence. 
I  might  supply  you  with  them  with  equal  justice  and 
humanity.  Ask  rather  for  wholesome  food.  You  have 
eaten  nothing  throughout  the  day." 

"  Wine,  wine  !  "  she  repeated  in  a  tone  of  the 
deepest  supplication,  and  moistening  with  her  tongue 
her  parched  and  fevered  lips  ;  "  w  ine,  Stukely,  or  I 
shall  die  before  your  eyes  ! "  and  she  squeezed  my 
hand  convulsively. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  267 

"  Emma  ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  of  all  my  misfortunes, 
this  stroke  falls  heaviest  upon  me.  How  you  are 
changed  !  what  infatuation  has  led  you  into  this  gulf 
of  misery  ?  Emma,  I  think  I  see  you,  but  I  mistrust 
my  senses.  My  heart  breaks  as  I  sit  beside  you."  I 
could  say  no  more,  for  my  throat  burned  and  was 
choked  with  emotion. 

"  Wine,  Caleb !  there's  a  dear,  Caleb.  Wine, 
wine  ! "  It  was  the  burden  of  her  song  : — say  what  I 
would,  wine  was  my  answer.  All  her  ideas  had  left 
her  but  this  one. 

"  Whatever  may  be  the  consequence,  Emma,"  I 
said,  with  seriousness,  "  I  will  not  comply  with  your 
request.  I  will  not  deliberately  become  your  murderer. 
I  am  punished  sufficiently  already.  Compose  yourself 
if  you  can,  and  forget  the  past."  She  threw  my 
hand  away  with  an  offended  air,  and  spake  no  more 
that  evening. 

Daily  I  vowed  to  leave  her,  and  daily  her  condition 
gave  desertion  a  cruel  and  unnatural  aspect.  Hour 
after  hour  I  waited  for  the  smallest  proof  of  amend- 
ment, which  should  also  be  my  signal  for  departure  ; 
but  the  change  was  still  from  bad  to  worse.  From 
morning  till  night  she  reiterated  her  intense  entreaties, 
which  I  invariably  rejected.  Then,  from  revenge  or 
inability,  she  refused  all  nourishment,  and  very  soon 
she  grew  emaciated,  wan,  and  deathlike.  Another 
week  passed  by.  Her  hand  began  to  shake,  and  never 
ceased;  her  muscles  quivered,  and  a  constant  tremor 


2G8  CALEB  STUKELT. 

of  the  body  moved  the  very  bod  with  quick  vibrations  : 
now  her  eyes  were  rolling  with  alarm,  and  now  were 
occupied  in  an  incessant  vacant  watchfulness ;  now 
they  were  fixed  sternly  upon  me,  and  now  they  chased 
about  the  room  some  phantom  of  the  brain,  and  fol- 
lowed till  they  lost  it.  What  wonder  if  the  reason 
took  alarm,  and  forsook  its  frail  and  tottering  tene- 
ment?    She  no  longer  knew  me. 

"  Monster  !  "  she  cried  out,  shrinking  from  my  touch 
as  I  approached  her,  "  would  you  kill  the  helpless 
creature  ?  would  you  sell  her  to  the  dogs  ?  It's  a  brave 
carcass.  Ah,  ah,  ah,  poor  lad  ! — Are  you  frightened  ? 
It  won't  hurt  you,  but  you  musn't  kill,  kill,  kill ! " 
She  stopped,  and  then  proceeded  in  another  strain : 
"  Come,  dear  mother,  the  bells  are  ringing.  The  folks 
are  all  ready  for  church.  Look  there,  too — there's 
dear  old  Adam  hobbling  as  fast  as  his  spindle  shanks 
can  carry  him — faster,  faster,  Adam,  or  they'll  begin 
without  you.  What  a  gay  Sunday  it  is  !  For  all 
the  world,  like  a  merry-making  !  But  the  sun  shines," 
she  continued  mournfully,  "  and  that  is  so  deceitful. 
The  night  is  sure  to  come  now .  Oh  !  it  would  be  a 
clever  trick  to  steal  the  sunshine ! — Don't  talk  unkindly 
to  me,  James — I  meant  no  harm.  You  forget.  Temple, 
that  I  gave  up  every  thing  for  you.  What,  again  ! " 
she  shrieked  out  louder  than  ever,  catching  sight 
of  me  in  the  inconstant  progress  of  her  eye ;  "  will 
this  man  never  be  gone  ?  Ha !  have  I  caught 
you  ? — Hide  that  knife ;  murder,  murder — the  fiend, 


CALEB  STUKELY.  269 

the  fiend ! "  And  then  she  checked  herself  imme- 
diately, fixed  upon  the  ceiling  an  impotent  and  empty 
stare,  whilst  heavy  perspiration  hung  in  pearly  drops 
about  her. 

I  had  no  power  to  move.  I  was  fastened  to  the 
spot,  and  I  looked  upon  the  poor  maniac  with  a  heart 
torn  by  conflicting  passions.  I  was  startled  by  a  voice. 
It  fell  upon  my  ears  like  a  faint  memory — like  the 
haunting  spirit  of  a  sound  deceased — the  spirit  that 
loves  to  awaken  slumbering  fancy.  It  touched  me, 
and  it  glided  on ; — what  was  its  business  now  ?  The 
voice  was  heard  again,  and  with  more  distinctness  than 
before.  It  was  the  substance,  and  no  shadow — the 
reality,  and  not  the  symbol.  It  was  louder  yet !  It 
called  my  name.  It  is  accompanied  by  a  footstep. 
That  voice,  that  step,  and  here  !  Earth,  open  your 
devouring  jaws  for  pity's  sake,  and  hide  me  from  my 
Father  / 


270  CALEB  STUKELY. 


PART   V. 

HOME  REVISITED. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Simeon-Clayton,  they  may  be  hght-hearted  again 
before  long — they  are  young,  and  it  is  but  natural ;  but  they  «ill  never  be  as 
they  have  been  :  their  eyes  are  opened  this  day,  and  they  have  learned  what 

this  world  is  made  of sorrow  and  trial  for  the  young  ;  and,  for  the  old,  aches 

and  pains,  as  we  know  full  well,  Simeon.     God  help  us  ! " — Paget's  Tales  of  the 
Village.    The  Mourner. 

It  is  a  dull  and  dreary  winter's  day.  The  earth 
sleeps  soundly,  and  on  her  rigid  face  appears  no  smile, 
to  tell  that  dreams  of  spring  are  moving  her  with  joy. 
The  thick  and  heavy  air  hangs  like  a  shroud  upon  her, 
and  a  frozen  silence  reigneth  every  where.  The  blood 
of  life  is  numbed,  and  in  the  vegetable,  as  well  as  in 
the  animal,  performs  its  functions  lazily.  It  is  a  day 
when  sunny  light  becomes  a  paradox — cerulean  sky,  a 
pure  impossibility ;  when  crimson  flowers,  and  laugh- 
ing trees,  and  purling  brooks,  seem  intimations  from  a 
poetic  childhood,  recollections  of  a  splendid  and  far 
distant  country,  when  summer  thoughts  bring  with 
them  shadowy  recollections  of  a  fairy  land,  pictures 
of  time,  and  place,  and  circumstance,  that  had  their 


CALEB  STUKELY.  271 

birth  and  origin  in  the  immortal  mind,  and  whose 
existence  was  first  revealed  to  us  in  sweet  and  cherished 
books.  Winter  is  an  envious  churl,  and  it  is  difficult 
to  realize  the  pleasant  summer  time  if  he  stand  by. 
Snow,  a  month  old,  lies  about  in  clumps  and  patches, 
embrowned  with  age,  hardened  and  coalesced  by  frost. 
Trees,  whose  spreading  foliage  has  sheltered  many 
times,  and  shall  again  protect,  from  heat  and  storm, 
the  solitary  wayfarer,  stand  defenceless  now  themselves 
— dismantled  skeletons.  And  yet  how  preferable  their 
natural  hybernal  death  to  the  unwholesome  life  of  yew- 
trees,  that  at  intervals  diversify  and  make  more  hideous 
the  melancholy  road ;  ever  and  anon  starting  upon  my 
path  like  wandering  spirits  doomed  to  carry  on  a 
changeless  and  eternal  life  in  a  vast  world  of  muta- 
bility. 

Nearly  two  years  have  elapsed  since  the  Cambridge 
Intelligence  discharged  me  at  Trinity  Gate.  The 
Huntingdon  coach  carries  me  slowly,  but  too  quickly, 
back  to  London.  My  university  education  is  com- 
pleted. My  father  is  at  my  side.  His  cheek  is  very 
pale,  and  his  brow  wears  a  settled  sadness.  He  has 
sighed  many  times,  (has  he  not  wept  too  ? — Have  I 
not  watched  it  fall — the  life-blood  tear  of  manhood  ?) 
but  he  has  not  spoken.  He  is  wasted,  and  corroding 
care  has  fed  upon  his  spirit.  Ah !  he  is  very  ill,  and 
I  dare  not  ask  how  it  is  with  him,  and  why  he  lan- 
guishes— the  tongue  of  the  criminal  is  tied.  We  are 
not  alone.     The  coach  contains  another  traveller,  a 


272  CALEB  STUKELY. 

man  advanced  in  years,  small  in  stature,  blessed  with 
a  countenance  that  is  radiant  with  benevolence — his 
grey  eyes  twinkle  with  delight,  and  he  is  restless  in  his 
seat.  Frequently  the  excited  little  man  hurries  to 
the  coach  window,  looks  into  the  road  with  an  averted 
face,  and  then  returns  to  his  place  with  a  moistened 
eye,  or  with  a  beamy  smile  illuminating  the  breadth 
and  depth  of  his  venerable  and  social  visage.  Some- 
times he  attacks  his  nose,  and  coughs  most  vehemently, 
to  make  us  understand  how  cruelly  he  suffers  from  a 
catarrh,  and  how  little  from  the  inundation  of  a  mirth 
that  will  not  be  restrained;  sometimes  he  hums  a  tune, 
and  accompanies  the  measure  with  his  feet,  to  carry 
off,  it  may  be,  through  many  and  various  channels, 
the  impetuous  stream  of  gladness  ever  running  from 
his  heart.  His  tongue  is  at  length  obhged  to  help  in 
the  dismission  of  the  current. 

"  Bless  him,  bless  him ! "  the  gratified  traveller 
ejaculated,  and  once  more  referring  us  to  his  nose 
for  an  explanation  of  his  words — "  Bless  the  dear 
boy's  heart ! " 

My  poor,  cast-down  father  had  not  previously 
noticed  our  companion.  He  looked  dejectedly  at 
him  now  as  he  spoke. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  dont  mind  me,"  he  continued ;  "  I 
am  the  happiest  man  in  the  creation,  but  I  am  not 
crazy.  Is  that  your  son  ?  Pardon  my  excessive  rude- 
ness." 

"  He  is,  sir,"  said  my  father. 


CALEB  STUKELY.  273 

"  Then  you  understand  all  about  it,  and  I  needn't 
apologize.  Listen  to  me,  my  dear  sir,  for  five  minutes, 
and  tell  me  if  I  am  not  the  luckiest  man  in  the  world — 
with  the  exception  of  yourself,  perhaps — I  am  sadly 
wanting  in  politeness.  I  married  him  this  morning, 
sir.     She  is  a  lovely  creature." 

"  Is  she  ? "  enquired  my  father  mechanically,  his 
thoughts  being  far,  very  far  from  the  speaker. 

«  Yes — no,"  replied  the  gentleman,  "  I  don't  mean 
that.  His  wife  is  an  angel — a  love-match — his  old 
master's  daughter.  One  of  the  right  school,  sir.  Are 
you  a  grandfather,  may  I  ask  ?  I  hope  it  is  not  an 
improper  question." 

"  I  am  not,  sir." 

"  Nor  am  I,  but  I  hope  to  be  one ;  and  then  my 
house  won't  hold  me.  If  it's  a  boy,  they  intend  to  call 
him  Jeremiah — that's  after  me,  of  course.  What  is 
the  meaning  of  Jeremiah  ?  " 

My  father  confessed  his  ignorance,  and  the  happy 
man  proceeded.  "  The  dear  boy  is  five-and-twenty 
this  very  day ;  and,  as  true  as  I  sit  here,  he  has  never 
knowingly  caused  me  one  moment's  pain.  I  may 
never  see  him  again.  It  was  hard  to  part  with  him. 
Don't  you  think  so  ? " 

"  '  A  good  son  maketh  a  glad  father ^^  saith  the  pro- 
verb," replied  my  father  in  a  mournful  voice. 

"  Yes,"  added  the  stranger  quickly,  '^' and  a  foolish 
son  is  a  grief  to  his  father^  and  bitterness  to  her  that 
bare  him^  that's  a  proverb  too,  although  it  is  not  so 


274  CALEB  STUKELY. 

much  in  my  way  as  the  other.  I'll  swear  your  pro- 
verb's true," — and  he  rubbed  his  hands  with  glee, 
whilst  my  father  drooped. 

"  It  is  exactly  ten  years  since  I  bound  him  appren- 
tice to  John  Claypole,  the  brewer.    You  know  him  ?" 

Mr  Stukely  shook  his  head  negatively. 

"  What,  not  know  John  Claypole  ?  Oh  yes !  you  do. 
You  have  seen  that  fine  house  on  the  Godmanchester 
road.  That's  his.  My  boy  will  live  there  soon.  He 
deserves  it.  I  have  no  notion  of  calling  a  man  lucky 
who  works  his  own  way  up  to  fortune.  My  dear  Jack  ! 
who  would  have  thought  that  he'd  marry  that  sweet 
child  of  Claypole's  !  They  are,  though  I  say  it,  the 
prettiest-mated  birds  that  ever  coupled.  There's 
something  to  look  at,  too,  in  Arabella — that's  a  curious 
name  isn't  it  ? — foreign,  I  suppose — eh  ?  Oh,  dear 
me  !'*  Now  part  of  the  little  gentleman's  joy  oozed 
in  perspiration  down  his  forehead,  and  he  cleared  it 
off,  and  then  continued,  "  I  was  saying  something — 
oh  yes !  I  bound  him  to  his  father-in-law — not  his 
father-in-law  then,  you  know — that  has  only  been 
since  nine  o'clock  this  morning.  '  Jack,'  S9  id  I,  when 
I  shook  hands  with  him  on  the  bridge  ten  minutes 
after  his  indentures  were  signed.  '  Jack,'  said  I,  '  we 
are  very  poor,  but  you  have  gentle  blood  flowing  in 
your  veins — don't  disgrace  us.'  '  Father,'  said  he,  '  I 
wont,  depend  upon  it,*  and  he  gave  me  a  grasp  of  the 
hand  in  return  for  my  own,  which  I  have  felt  ever 
since,  whenever  I  talk  or  think  about  the  lad.     It  is 


CALEB  STUKELY.  275 

tingling  now — it  is  really,  sir — I  don't  romance ; "  and 
now  his  joy  checked  his  utterance,  and  his  handker- 
chief was  busy  with  his  eyes.  My  father  listened  to 
the  old  man  with  earnestness,  and  his  pale  lip  trembled. 
,  "  When  the  child's  time  was  out,  that's  just  three 
years  ago,  his  mother  was  taken  ill,  and,  poor  creature, 
died  too  soon.  If  you  had  seen  the  boy  at  her  bedside 
for  one  whole  month" 

"  How  many  miles  is  this  from  Huntingdon  ? " 
enquired  my  father,  interrupting  him. 

"  The  last  stone  was  twenty-three.  Where  did  I 
leave  off,  sir  ?     Dear  me — How  very  warm  it  is  ! " 

"  And  yet  it  freezes  hard,"  rejoined  my  father. 

"  Do  you  really  say  so  ?  Ah,  cold  cannot  freeze 
a  father's  heart — can  it,  sir  ?  Well,  his  mother  died, 
and  then,  John  Claypole  sent  for  me  ;  '  Jeremiah,'  he 
said,  (his  father  was  second  cousin  to  my  wife's  uncle, 
so,  being  relations,  he  always  called  me  by  my  Christian 
name, ) — Jeremiah,  your  boy  has  two  good  qualities ; 
he  speaks  the  truth  and  has  an  honourable  respect 
for  ha'pence.  I  shall  take  care  of  him  ? '  And  hasn't 
he  taken  care  of  him  ?  Hasn't  he  given  him  a  share 
in  the  brewery,  and  a  share  of  his  house,  and  his  own 
daughter  all  to  himself?  And  hasn't  the  dear  boy 
taken  care  of  his  father,  and  made  him  comfortable 
for  life  ?  And  hasn't  his  father  seen  him  married  this 
very  day,  and  hadn't  he  better  make  the  best  of  his 
way  home  and  die  at  once,  because  he  can  never  be 
so  happy  again  if  he  lives  to  the  age  of  Methuselah  ? 


276  CALEB  STUKELY. 

I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  a  father,  hecause  you  won't 

think  me  a  fool  for" the  concluding  words  were 

drowned  in  the  handkerchief. 

"  You  have  much  to  be  grateful  for,  sir ; "  said  my 
father,  ready  to  weep  from  a  very  different  cause. 
"  You  are  a  happy  man." 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  am  three  happy  men.  I  think  you  will 
find  that  to  be  correct,  if  you  take  the  average.  I  trust 
I  am  sufficiently  humble ;  my  privileges  are  manifold." 

That  my  feelings  during  this  interesting  scene  were 
not  of  the  most  agreeable  kind  may  easily  be  supposed. 
During  my  long  service  with  my  present  worthy  em- 
ployer, I  have  had  many  opportunities  of  noticing  the 
behaviour  of  culprits  on  particular  occasions,  especially 
in  the  dock  of  the  Old  Bailey,  at  those  intensely  plea- 
sant moments  when  a  communicative  witness  enters 
upon  an  affecting  portion  of  the  said  culprit's  secret 
and  domestic  history.  When,  on  these  occasions,  I 
have  seen  the  brazen  face  throw  off  its  metal,  modestly 
avoid  the  public  gaze,  and  languish  gradually  upon  the 
breast :  then  have  I,  likewise,  seen  the  tableau  vivant 
of  poor  Caleb  Stukely,  pierced  with  remorse  and  shame, 
uneasy  with  the  weight  of  his  own  head,  and  eager  to 
evaporate,  in  the  coach  that  carried  him  from  Hunt- 
ingdon. 

The  stranger  grew  more  pleasant  and  loquacious ; 
my  father  a  more  attentive  listener.  To  me  the  latter 
did  not  address  the  shortest  syllable.  Although  sitting 
at  his  side,  I  was  in  effect  as  much  withdrawn  from  him 


CALEB  STUKELY.  277 

as  though  an  ocean  rolled  between  us.  He  treated  me 
with  cold  neglect.  If  his  new  acquaintance  referred 
to  me — and  he  often  did  so  to  gratify  the  parent's  na- 
tural vanity,  and  to  afford  himself  an  excuse  for  a  fresh 
recapitulation  of  the  merits  of  his  own  darling  offspring 
— my  father  returned  a  short,  quick  answer,  and  avoided 
discussion  on  the  subject.  I  was  indeed  abandoned, 
and  I  quailed  before  the  just  anger  of  a  father,  which 
divided  us  now  as  surely  as  we  had  been  united  by  his 
previous  confiding  and  unbounded  love.  Once  only 
had  I  ventured  to  speak  since  we  entered  the  coach ; 
and  my  father  neither  replied  to  me  nor  turned  his 
face  towards  me.  For  the  first,  but  not  for  the  last 
time,  did  the  thought  of  self-destruction  possess  my 
mind  without  alarming  it. 

We  stopped  for  refreshment.  My  father  did  not 
enter  the  inn,  but  walked  slowly  through  the  lonely 
street,  the  only  one  of  the  village  in  which  our  coach 
halted.  I  followed  him,  and  when  I  overtook  him, 
seized  his  hand. 

"  Father,  father  ! "  I  exclaimed  at  the  same  moment, 

"  Well,  Caleb ;  "  he  replied,  disengaging  his  hand, 
and  in  a  passionless  voice. 

"  Speak  to  me,  dear  father  !  "  I  cried  out.  "  Be 
angry  with  me.  Upbraid  me.  I  can  never  repair  the 
cruel  wrong  that  I  have  inflicted  upon  you.  I  deserve 
punishment.  Do  not  spare  it.  I  will  bear  it  patiently, 
gladly.  But  speak  to  me,  for  God's  sake  !  Speak 
harshly,  reproachfully ;  but  do  speak  !  " 


278  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  Caleb,"  answered  my  father,  moved  by  my  im- 
portunity, and  in  a  tone  of  sorrow,  "  there  are  upbraid- 
ings  and  reproaches  waiting  you  at  home  that  will  fall 
upon  you  with  pitiless  violence.  Bear  them  if  you 
can.  /  have  no  punishment  to  inflict.  The  hot  iron 
is  prepared.  I  can  promise  you  no  mitigation  of  suf- 
fering. You  have  sown — you  must  reap ;  there  is  a 
retributive  justice  here.  Good  or  evil  deeds  done  in 
the  flesh,  are  requited  in  the  flesh.  Gather  yourself, 
then,  and  summon  courage  for  the  penalty.  You  will 
pay  it  shortly." 

It  was  late  at  night  when  we  reached  home.  The 
shops  and  houses  were  closed.  The  streets  of  busy 
London  were  as  tranquil  as  a  field  of  slumbering  roses. 
The  flickering  lamps  made  darkness  visible;  and  a 
heavy  coach  or  two,  at  intervals,  rendered  silence 
audible.  We  rang  at  the  door  of  our  habitation, 
and  a  strange  man,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand, 
opened  it. 

"  Who's  that,  Bolster  ?  "  enquired  a  loud  uncouth 
voice,  emanating  apparently  from  the  shop. 

"  All  right,  master ;  "  replied  the  attendant,  locking 
and  bolting  the  door,  whilst  my  father  proceeded  to 
the  parlour,  and  I  went  after  him. 

"  Who  are  these  ?  "  I  asked,  surprised  and  alarmed 
at  the  presence  of  these  unexpected  visitors  ;  "  what 
are  these  men  ?  " 

"  Our  masters,  Caleb ;  be  grateful  to  them,  and  show 
them  all  civility  :  we  are  here  on  sufferance." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  270 

"  Dear  father,  what  can  you  mean  ?  Is  not  this  our 
house  ?  " 

"  Our  house  is  a  large  one — as  wide  as  the  world 
itself — it  is  roofed  only  by  heaven.  This  is  the  first 
reproach.  I  told  you  they  would  come  quickly.  Our 
house,  Caleb  ?  We  are  beggars,  houseless,  penniless, 
save  what  they  allow  in  charity.  They  are  very  kind. 
We  must  not  seem  proud,  or  these  men  will  get  us 
turned  out  in  revenge.  I  wouldn't  care  for  myself,  but 
what  would  you  do  ?  Stay  here  a  minute ;  I  will 
speak  with  them."  Saying  these  words,  he  opened  the 
parlour  door  which  communicated  with  the  shop,  and 
joined  the  individuals  who  were  sitting  there.  There 
were  two ;  a  small  window  permitted  me  to  get  sight 
of  them.  One  was  Mr  Bolster — the  gentleman  who 
admitted  us :  the  other,  I  concluded  to  be  the  person 
whom  he  had  honoured  with  the  title  of  superior.  Both 
of  them  were  dressed  with  the  same  elegance  and  taste  : 
and  both  were  endowed  with  that  intelligent ,  cast  of 
features  which  generally  denotes  a  first-rate  education, 
and  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  things  in  general. 
Their  eyes  had  evidently  been  to  school  from  earliest 
infancy,  and  had  learned  all  the  languages.  The  other 
members  of  the  facial  family  had  been  brought  up  with 
equal  care,  were  beaming  with  the  brightest  polish, 
and  had  kept  up  steadily  with  the  rapid  march  of  civil- 
ization and  scientific  knowledge.  They  were  gentlemen 
certainly  not  in  danger  of  falling  victims  to  their  sim- 
plicity or  worldly  innocence.     Mr  Bolster  decorated 


280  CALEB  STUKELT. 

the  lower  part  of  a  very  stout  and  ill  defined  person 
with  corduroy  shorts,  worsted  stockings,  and  thick 
half-boots.  His  head  was  divided  from  the  rest  of  his 
body  by  a  Belcher  handkerchief  which  supplied  the 
place  of  a  neck — a  superfluous  portion  of  "  the  form 
divine,"  with  which  Mr  Bolster  had  never  been  trou- 
bled. He  wore  a  costermonger's  coat,  and  a  yellow 
waistcoat.  He  had  a  short  and  bristly  head  of  hair ; 
and  in  the  centre  of  a  low,  flat,  retreating,  but  by  no 
means  ugly  forehead,  he  carried  a  stupendous  wen — an 
enlargement  possibly  of  the  organ  of  benevolence  or 
conscientiousness,  if  either  of  these  sentiments  lie  here- 
abouts in  the  human  skull.  The  "  Master"  was  tall 
and  scraggy,  lacking  flesh,  but  framed  with  bones  of 
antediluvian  form  and  structure.  His  dress  was  of  the 
same  character  as  Bolster's,  a  thought  fresher,  perhaps, 
in  respect  of  colour — yet  this  might  be  a  fancy  sug- 
gested by  the  knowledge  of  their  different  conditions 
— but  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was  very  dis- 
similar. Master  and  man  had  seen  much  of  life,  and 
you  marked  them  with  a  look  for  men  of  rare  experi- 
ence ;  but  the  wisdom  and  the  learning  that  had  made 
Bolster  merry,  had  rendered  the  principal  sad  and 
thoughtful.  The  face  of  the  former  was  stamped  with 
a  grin  :  that  of  the  latter  veiled  with  grief.  At  the  feet 
of  the  tall  man  crouched  an  unsightly  dog,  remarkable 
for  the  mange,  for  leanness,  and  for  his  extraordinary 
resemblance  to  the  gentleman  who  owned  him.  The 
two  worthies  were  sitting  at  a  deal  table  before  a  roar- 


CALEB  STUKELY.  281 

ing  fire.  A  pewter  pot  containing  porter  was  in  the 
grasp  of  the  unhappy  principal,  and  a  clay  pipe  was  at 
his  side.  The  table  itself  was  ornamented  with  a  quar- 
tern loaf,  a  lump  of  cheese,  a  pack  of  cards,  one  candle, 
and  a  cribbage-board.  The  men  rose  as  my  father  en- 
tered the  shop,  and  Bolster  greeted  him  with  a  cordial 
laugh,  whilst  the  master  eyed  him  with  sorrow  and 
compassion.  I  could  not  overhear  their  conversation. 
In  a  few  minutes  my  father  returned  to  me. 

"  The  men  will  let  us  share  their  bread  and  cheese," 
said  my  father ;  "  it  is  too  late  to  purchase  any  thing 
to-night,  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  house  besides. 
You  must  be  hungry,  Caleb  ?  " 

"  But  what  are  these  men  to  us,  father  ?  What 
wonderful  change  has  taken  place  in  our  home.  Where 
is  my  mother  ?  " 

My  father  changed  colour,  and  a  spasm  caught  the 
muscles  of  his  face.  "  It  is  not  my  fault  that  you  have 
not  known  of  these  matters  before.  I  have  written  to 
you  many  letters.  I  have  sought  you  many  times.  I 
have  done  my  duty  by  you." 

"  Indeed  you  have,  my  dearest  father ;  and  I  have 
been  ungrateful  and  unfilial.  Believe  me,  I  will  be 
wiser  for  the  future.  Restore  your  confidence,  and 
trust  me." 

"  The  future  !  the  future  !  "  repeated  my  father 
musingly,  "  that  will  hardly  repair  the  past.  We  will 
have  some  talk  to-morrow,  Caleb.  It  is  a  short  his- 
tory to  recite,  but  a  weighty  one.    We  must  not  refuse 

VOL.  I.  2  a 


282  CALEB  STUKELY. 

these  good  men's  hospitality,'  or  they  will  take  offence ; 
and  I  tell  you  they  may  get  us  cast  into  the  street.  It 
does  not  matter  if  I  am  thrown  upon  a  dunghill.  What 
would  become  of  you  ?  I  must  think  of  that ; — oh  yes  ! 
I  ought  to  think  of  that." 

"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  I  beseech  you,  my  dear 
father,  to  explain  yourself  more  fully — what  power 
have  these  visitors  over  you  ?  What  right  have  they 
here  ? — what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Caleb,"  replied  my  father,  who  seemed 
alarmed  at  my  tone  and  agitation ;  "  nothing.  It 
happens  every  day ;  do  not  be  frightened ;  many  better, 
wealthier  men  than  I  have  suffered  it,  and  have  held 
up  their  heads  again,  and  have  got  rich  and  prospered ; 
— there  is  no  disgrace  in  bankruptcy." 

"  Bankruptcy ! "  I  exclaimed,  my  blood  curdling  at 
the  dreadful  thought. 

"  Yes,  bankruptcy  ! "  reiterated  my  poor  father, 
bursting  into  tears,  which  would  not  be  suppressed ; 
"it  is  too  true,  bankruptcy — shame — dishonour — 
ignominy  !  Every  thing  is  gone  ;  our  name  is  blasted 
— our  home  is  snatched  from  us — the  fair  reputation, 
too,  that  has  had  no  spot  or  stain  for  centuries,  is 
soiled  and  smirched.  They  might  have  spared  me 
this.  Caleb,  we  are  beggars,  but  this  is  least  of  all ; 
if  there  were  nothing  else,  they  might  take  all,  and 
welcome." 

"  Father,  this  is  very  sudden ;  I  left  you  thriving, 
and  in  the  midst  of  plenty." 


C.VIiEB  STUKELY.  283 

"  Yes,  Caleb,  and  I  left  you  innocent,  and  full  of 
truth  and  promise.  You  are  right ;  it  has  been  sudden. 
We  do  not,  indeed,  meet  as  we  parted."  This  was 
spoken  with  some  bitterness,  and  I  was  immediately 
silenced. 

"  Come,"  resumed  my  father  in  a  milder  voice, 
"  you  shall  take  some  supper,  and  then  go  to  bed ;  all 
the  news  cannot  be  told  at  once.  Remember,  Caleb, 
we  have  not  corresponded  for  months,  and  much  may 
come  to  pass  in  a  single  hour — in  a  moment.  You 
shall  know  all  to-morrow.  Do  not  let  us  keep 
the  good  men  waiting;  they  must  be  our  friends — 
come  now." 

He  walked  again  into  the  shop,  and  I  followed  him. 
Ill  prepared  as  I  was  for  eating,  I  dared  not  disobey- 
him  ;  a  preying  sense  of  past  undutifulness  robbed  me 
of  free-will.  Had  it  been  left  me,  could  I  have  exer- 
cised it  in  opposition  to  his  wishes,  when  so  much 
depended  upon  a  cheerful  compliance?  The  shop 
looked  wretched  indeed ;  the  walls  were  stripped,  and 
bales  of  merchandise  were  heaped  upon  the  floor 
without  order  or  care :  they  were  marked  and  lotted. 
The  large  iron  cupboard,  which  my  father,  for  so 
many  years,  had  nightly  secured  with  double  lock,  and 
whose  creaking  hinges  had  so  often  sung  a  lullaby  to 
his  cashbooks  and  ledgers,  stood  open  and  deserted. 
The  black  shelves  were  empty;  an  open  drawer  dis- 
played a  few  old  banker's  cheques,  long  since  honoured, 
now  crossed  and  valueless.     Every  other  thing  had 


284  CALEB  STUKELY. 

been  carried  off.  The  shop  itself,  that  was  ever  so 
neat  and  clean,  and  such  a  pattern  of  a  place  of 
business,  was  disfigured  with  the  accumulated  dust 
and  dirt  of  weeks,  and  with  the  oifscourings  of  shelves, 
whose  tops  had  not  been  visited  or  disturbed  for  years 
before.  You  might  have  searched  through  London, 
and  not  found  a  place  so  well  equipped  and  qualified 
for the  broken  heart.  Mr  Bolster  and  his  com- 
panion rose  again  upon  our  entrance  ;  a  slight  addition 
had  been  made  to  the  repast — there  was  a  second 
pewter  pot ;  in  other  respects  the  table  was  as  before 
described.  I  sat  dowfT  with  my  meal  already  in  my 
mouth — for  my  full  heart  was  in  it — and  dared  not 
look  upon  my  unhappy  parent  for  very  grief  and 
shame.  I  had  scarcely  seated  myself  when  Mr  Bolster 
began  to  grin,  and  to  exhibit  various  sprightly  contor- 
tions of  his  face,  much  more  pleasing  to  himself  than 
to  me,  who  appeared  to  be  the  subject  of  them.  He 
planted  his  laughing  eyes  upon  me,  and  when  I  met 
them  withdrew  them  suddenly;  not,  however,  before  he 
was  overtaken  by  a  violent  impulse  to  indulge  himself 
and  laugh  outright.  The  struggle  between  this 
natural  force,  and  his  acquired  notions  of  good  beha- 
viour, caused  his  cheeks  to  swell,  and  his  features  to 
assume  the  lines  and  forms  of  a  vast  kaleidoscope. 
Somewhat  offended,  I  turned  to  his  superior,  whose 
head  I  encountered,  oscillating  mournfully,  pendulum 
fashion.  Every  movement  carried  with  it  a  vote  of 
censure — a   volume   of  reproof.      I   sat  uneasy  and 


CALEB  STUKELY.  285 

silent  between  the  tutelary  geniuses  of  tragedy  and 
comedy,  who  presided  over  my  unfortunate  parent's 
once  prosperous  dwelling-place. 

"  You  have  come  from  college,  haven't  you  ?  "  en- 
quired Bolster  with  a  chuckle.  "  You  finished  your 
eddication  just  in  time.  I  hope  you  have  taken  your 
degrees  ?  The  governor  takes  his  on  Monday  week, 
if  the  assignees  is  satisfied  with  his  examination ;  I 
should  say  he'll  pass.  He  isn't  half  so  flat  as  he  looks 
— are  you,  old  gentleman  ? "  And  he  handed  my 
father  a  plate  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  gently  pushed 
the  pot  of  porter  towards  him. 

"  Do  you  think  there  will  be  any  difficulty  ?"  asked 
my  father  anxiously,  and  addressing  himself  to  the 
chief  officer. 

The  latter  shook  his  head  despondingly. 

"  Now,  Mr  Growler,  that's  just  the  way  with  you," 
rejoined  the  lively  Bolster.  "  For  pouring  cold  water 
down  a  fellow's  back,  I  never  found  your  equal.  You 
hadn't — oughtn't  to  have  followed  this  here  line  of 
business.  Bankruptcy  is  too  sewere  for  you ;  every 
gazette  as  comes  out  I  sees  an  alteration  in  you. 
You'll  fall  a  wictim  to  your  own  profession — mark  my 
words." 

The  principal  looked  at  Bolster  with  an  expression 
too  deep  for  utterance,  and  then  concealed  his  face  and 
feelings  for  some  minutes  in  the  pewter  pot. 

"  They  surely  will  not  distress  me  further,"  said  my 


286  CALEB  STUKELY. 

father ;  "  what  can  they  gain  by  it  ?     I  have  given  up 
every  thing." 

Bolster  winked,  and  answered,  "  In  course  you 
have.  I  never  knew  a  bankrupt  yet  as  hadn't.  And 
when  you  goes  up  for  your  degrees  on  Monday  week, 
and  they  asks  you  to  surrender,  you'll  turn  your 
pockets  inside  out,  and  show  *em  the  dirty  lining,  and 
the  farden  you  got  in  change  for  the  last  half-pint, 
and  take  your  oath  you  haven't  another  farden  in  the 
world  to  make  that  a  ha'penny,  and  kiss  the  book  to 
show  there's  no  doubt  about  it,  but  that  it's  all  quite 
true  and  regular — and  iio  mistake." 

"  I  wouldn't  hunt  them  in  misfortune,"  said  my 
father,  "  as  some  of  these  men  are  following  me. 
They'll  persecute  me  to  the  grave;  it  is  a  dreadful 
thing  to  have  a  merciless  creditor." 

"  Now,"  continued  Bolster,  "  I  have  seen  a  good 
deal  of  this  here  sort  of  life,  and  I  don't  mind  them 
merciless  ones  at  all.  I  likes  a  savage  to  begin  with; 
you  tames  him  by  degrees.  It's  your  quiet  and  inno- 
cent boys  as  I  dreads;  them  as  was  never  in  court 
afore,  and  cuddles  the  Bible  when  they  swears  to 
their  debts,  and  kisses  it  so  wery  hard.  Them  chaps 
always  looks  as  if  they  had  walked  into  a  place  of  wor- 
ship, where  him  as  is  most  religious  and  kisses  hardest 
gets  best  pay.  Nothing  less  than  one-and-twenty  shil- 
lings in  the  pound  comes  up  to  their  belief;  and  ain't 
they  wilder  than  heathens  when  they  diskiver  it's  only 


CALEB  STUKELY.  287 

three-ha'pence  ?  Give  me  a  fellow  as  is  used  to  it,  and 
knows  the  worst,  and  who  blows  at  the  book  a  mile  off 
from  his  lips,  'cause  he's  internally  satisfied,  that  if  he 
presses  it  ever  so  close  he  couldn't  press  the  dividend 
up  to  twopence.  You  may  do  wonders  with  a  chap  as 
is  resigned,  but  I'm  blessed  if  there  is  any  moving  one 
as  is  disappinted.  That's  my  experience ;  and  now, 
young  gentleman,  if  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  take  the 
nightcap  off  that  porter,  I  shall  be  happy  to  wish  the 
old  gentleman  safe  over  his  troubles." 

My  father  carried  on  a  conversation  respecting  his 
affairs  in  an  under  tone  with  Mr  Growler,  Bolster,  at 
the  same  time,  initiating  me  into  the  Eleusinian  mys- 
teries of  the  Court  of  Bankruptcy.  Both  gentlemen 
were,  as  it  is  technically  called,  in  possession  of  our  house 
and  its  contents.  Their  sympathies  were  clearly  en- 
gaged on  my  father's  behalf,  and  many  observations 
that  escaped  them,  tended  to  produce  the  conviction, 
that  any  office  of  kindness  which  they  could  perform 
for  us  consistently  with  their  duty,  or,  more  accurately 
to  speak,  consistently  with  their  safety  and  with  their 
security  from  detection,  should  on  no  account  be  with- 
held. A  species  of  paraphrase  which  Mr  Growler 
employed  when  he  took  leave  of  us  at  the  close  of  sup- 
per, placed  this  matter  beyond  all  doubt.  "  A  man, 
Mr  Stukely,"  said  he,  "  isn't  accountable  for  what 
happens  when  he's  fast  asleep — that's  morally  certain. 
Bolster  and  I  are  not  early  risers ;  we  hke  to  indulge 
— on  a  Sunday  morning  especially.      You  may  have 


288 


CALEB  STUKELT. 


noticed  that  the  mornings  are  dark,  I  may  say  very 
dark.  It  is  surprising  how  much  may  be  done  before 
breakfast — are  you  aware  that  the  inventory  isn't 
finished  ?  It  is  a  remarkable  fact,  that  the  stock  in 
the  parlour  isn't  in  the  catalogue  at  all.  I  am  not 
obliged  to  know  every  thing ;  I  mean  to  say,  there's 
no  law  to  make  me.  I  hope  I  do  my  public  duty  faith- 
fully ;  but  in  this  free  country  every  man  has  a  right 
to  enjoy  his  private  opinion — I  have  mine.  Yours  is 
a  very  hard  case — I  pity  you — you^  Mr  Stukely."  The 
last  you  he  uttered  with  a  powerful  emphasis,  and  then 
he  stared  at  me  with  the  same  ill-natured  sorrow  as 
before,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  sighed,  and  left  us. 

The  look  of  things  up-stairs  was  even  more  despe- 
rate and  comfortless  than  below.  The  furniture  had 
been  torn  from  every  room.  The  largest  apartment 
contained  a  temporary  bed  made  upon  the  floor,  a 
small  deal  table,  and  a  solitary  chair — nothing  in  the 
world  besides.  The  room  was  icy-cold ;  and  when  my 
father  entered  it,  holding  before  me  his  small  piece  of 
dimly-burning  candle,  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  lighting 
me  to  a  dungeon.  I  slept  with  him  that  night.  In 
the  morning  I  reminded  him  of  his  promise,  and 
prayed  him  to  give  me  some  account  of  my  absent 
mother.  He  desired  me  to  accompany  him  to  the 
room  which,  in  their  days  of  prosperity,  had  been  their 
sleeping  apartment ;  I  did  so.  There  was  not  a  move- 
able in  the  place.  He  locked  the  door,  and  opened  a 
very  small  cupboard  which  was  in  a  corner  of  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  289 

room.  He  produced  a  hat  covered  with  crape  to  the 
very  crown,  and  a  man's  suit  of  black  clothes.  I 
screamed  out,  and  dropped  into  his  arms.  When  I 
recovered,  my  father  was  bending  over  me  with  a 
countenance  pale  as  death,  but  dispossessed  of  all 
violent  emotion. 

"  I  would  not  put  them  on,  Caleb,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  of  unnatural  calmness,  "  until  you  had  been 
informed  of  the  fact.  She  is  gone.  I  am  here  to  tell 
it  you.     You  are  alive  to  hear  it." 

"  Father,"  I  enquired,  "  when  was  it — how — what 
was  the  cause  ?  Sudden  it  must  have  been.  Oh,  let 
me  know  all !  Merciful  Heaven,  what  a  blow  is  this  !" 
"  Grief,  grief,  grief ! "  replied  my  father,  repeating 
the  words  with  a  painful  emphasis ;  "  grief,  such  as 
only  she  could  feel — blighting,  withering  anxiety  and 
distress.  For  whom  ?  For  one  who  never  cared  to 
estimate  the  priceless  worth  of  her  absorbing  and 
unselfish  love." 

I  shook,  and  my  brain  writhed  with  an  aching  sense 
of  guilt. 

"  Caleb,  you  are  not  unprepared  for  this — you  can- 
not be.  I  warned  you  of  the  retribution  that  would 
follow  upon  ingratitude,  and  a  mad  neglect  of  one  who 
lived  only  in  the  incessant  pouring  forth  upon  you  of 
the  stream  of  a  maternal  love,  boundless  and  over- 
flowing. I  cautioned  you  of  the  danger  of  checking 
that  gushing  and  too  generous  fount.  I  dreaded  the 
revulsion.     I  knew  that  death  would  follow — but  not 

VOL.  I.  2  B 


290  CVLEB  STUKELT. 

SO  quickly.     I  did  not  calculate  upon  such  astounding, 
such  destroying  speed." 

"  Father,  do  not  say  so.  You  cannot  mean  it.  It 
is  not  true.     Did  I" 

"  Break  her  heart  ?  "  he  added  quickly.  "  You  did 
— may  God  forgive  you  for  it ! " 

I  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  seized  his  hand,  and  wrung 
it  in  the  extremity  of  mental  suffering.  "  Father,"  I 
cried  out  "  do  you  forgive  me  !  I  have  been  a  guilty 
wretch  indeed.  I  have  committed  a  most  dreadful 
crime.  I  am  her  murderer ! "  I  stopped,  sobbing 
bitterly.  ^ 

"  No,  Caleb,  I  did  not  say  that  exactly,"  faltered 
my  poor  father. 

"  Oh  yes !  I  am ;  and  if  I  live  for  years — for  ever — 
I  cannot  wash  away  the  infamy.  I  can  never  make  my 
repentance  known  to  her.  She  can  never  behold  the 
remorse  and  sorrow  of  my  aching  heart.  She  can 
never  forgive  me.  But  do  not  you  discard  me.  Father, 
I  will  never  leave  you ;  I  will  slave  for  your  happiness 
and  comfort.  Don't  cast  me  away  !  Don't  think  me 
unworthy  of  your  love — below  your  consideration ! 
If  we  have  lost  her — God,  what  a  dreadful  thought! 
— if  she  is  taken  from  us,  how  much  more  do  you 
need  the  sympathy  and  help  of  your  own  flesh  and 
blood  !  You  cannot  understand  all  that  I  have  suffered 
from  your  cold  and  crushing  silence.  You  would  pity 
me  if  you  did.  I  cannot  live  and  bear  it.  Dear 
father,  I  repent — I  remember  the  past  with  bitterness 


CALEB  STUKELT.  291 

— with  shame,  with  hatred  of  myself.  Let  me  obliterate 
it  by  serving  you  obediently  and  lovingly  for  the  time 
to  come — dearest  father,  let  me  !" 

"  Say  no  more,  boy,"  answered  my  father,  returning 
my  own  trembling  pressure  of  the  hand ;  "  say  no 
more.  She  forgave  and  blessed  you.  I  must  not  be 
cruel.  May  I  confide  in  you,  Caleb  ? "  he  asked, 
after  a  pause. 

"  I  cannot  wonder  that  you  hesitate  to  do  so,"  I 
replied.  "  In  truth,  father,  I  have  given  you  no  cause 
to  trust  me." 

"  But  I  will  trust  you,  Caleb.  You  noticed  the 
rude  tone  and  manner  of  the  man  to  whom  we  owed 
our  meal  last  night.  I  was  not  angry  with  him.  It 
is  the  mode  they  practise  towards  the  broken  down 
and  ruined.  He  meant  no  harm.  Integrity  and 
insolvency  are,  to  these  men's  view,  as  far  asunder 
as  vice  and  virtue.  The  bankrupt  is  a  criminal — he 
is  without  the  social  circle — an  object  to  be  stared  at, 
despised,  and  shunned  ;  bantered  with  for  a  moment, 
if  you  please,  but  avoided  ever  after.  He  has  ceased 
to  be  of  the  community — the  life-blood  has  left  him. 
You  will  hear  them,  Caleb,  talking  of  the  bankrupt,  as 
the  living  talk  of  a  corpse.  That  man  may  be  excused; 
but  the  creditors,  Caleb — men  who  in  their  hearts 
know  me  better — accuse  me  of  the  vilest  practices ; 
they  taunt  me  with  the  commission  of  acts  impossible 
for  me  to  conceive.  Their  losses  have  made  them 
demons  ;  they  are  infuriated  at  the  consequences  of  a 


292  CAI.EB  STUKELT. 

blow  which,  as  it  fell,  only  grazed  them,  but  lacerated 
and  mangled  me.  They  are  bent  upon  the  destruction 
of  my  good  name,  and  would  make  that  bankrupt  too. 
Caleb,  it  must  never  be.  We  must  work  night  and 
day  to  clear  away  the  heap  of  opprobrium  beneath 
which  they  would  bury  the  precious  jewel  of  my  hfe. 
We  will  prove  to  them  and  to  the  world  that  I  am 
spotless." 

"  We  will,  dear  father  !  "  I  exclaimed,  burning  with 
enthusiasm. 

"  You  must  do  more,  Caleb.  Let  me  be  proved 
innocent,  as  our  sense  of  justice  would  demand,  as 
our  hearts  could  wish :  remember,  to  an  extent,  I  must 
die  with  a  dishonoured  name ;  with  debts  unpaid,  obli- 
gations undischarged — leaving  no  means  of  satisfying 
them.  This  is  a  stigma  no  energy  can  remove.  If 
you  wish  me  to  lay  down  my  head  in  peace  on  my 
deathbed — soon  I  shall  be  called  to  do  it,  be  it  in 
peace  or  trouble — if  you  wish  my  spirit  to  be  happy 
vi^hen  my  body  is  at  rest,  make  me  one  promise  now. 
Promise  me  to  strive,  to  labour  in  every  honourable 
way  to  realize  a  sum  sufficient  for  the  pa}nnent  of  these 
debts.  If  you  are  in  earnest,  God  will  prosper  your 
exertions,  and  the  memory  which  I  leave  covered  with 
disgrace  shall  assuredly  be  made  honourable  again  by 
you.     Can  you  promise  this  to  me  ?  " 

"  Father,  I  beseech  you  to  dictate  the  solemn  pro- 
mise in  the  terms  you  deem  most  fit,  and  I  will  makQ 
it  cheerfully." 


CALEB  STUKELY.  293 

"  It  is  enough,"  he  said,  "  and  I  rely  upon  you." 
The  very  same  day,  my  father  and  I  commenced  an 
investigation  of  his  accounts  preparatory  to  a  statement 
of  his  affairs,  which  was  to  be  produced  at  his  forth- 
coming examination  before  the  officers  of  the  law. 
He  set  about  the  task  with  the  vigour  of  youth,  and 
with  the  spirit  and  Ufe  which  he  had  ever  infused  into 
his  business  transactions.  In  the  prosecution  of  the 
exciting  employment,  its  disastrous  nature  was  for- 
gotten, and  he  daily  rose  from  his  long-continued 
labours,  as  satisfied  and  rejoiced,  as  if  profit,  reward, 
and  honour,  were  to  be  the  result  of  all  the  patient 
toil.  And  were  they  not  to  be  ?  What  gain,  what 
recompense,  what  dignity  could  his  upright  and  manly 
understanding  acknowledge  superior  to  those  which 
would  follow  the  acknowledgment  and  publication  of 
his  unblemished  character?  I  knew  nothing  of  ac- 
counts ;  but  I  was  happy  beyond  expression  in  the 
mechanical  work  which  I  was  enabled  to  perform,  and 
in  the  steady  appUcation  which  was  so  gratifying  to 
my  untiring  parent.  Many  times,  in  the  casting  up  of 
a  long  hne  of  figures,  a  sudden  thought  of  my  poor 
dear  mother  would  check  the  upward  progress  of  my 
pen,  dissipate  the  carefully  accumulated  numbers,  and 
mingle  drops  of  sacred  water  with  the  dry  and  hardened 
ink ;  but  the  inspiriting  and  incessant  occupation  saved 
me  from  many  bitter  reflections,  and  tended  to  break 
the  fall  of  a  calamity,  which  otherwise  I  could  ill  have 
borne.     My  father  was  fairly  roused  by  the  advance- 


294  CALEB  STUKELY. 

ment  and  extent  of  our  labours,  and  he  displayed  an 
exuberant,  an  almost  childish  gladness  in  the  pursuit  of 
his  object,  that  permitted  not  the  intrusion  of  extrane- 
ous thoughts.  He  spoke  not  of  my  mother :  but  my 
faithful  adherence  and  unflinching  constancy  drew  from 
him  the  most  fervent  expressions  of  aifectionate  grati- 
tude. "  I  was  a  noble  boy — he  forgave  me  every 
thing — he  was  sure  that  I  should  keep  my  plighted  word. 
God  would  prosper  my  exalted  efforts,  and  we  should 
all  three  meet  again  in  heaven — reunited."  After  we 
had  been  a  few  days  together,  he  could  not  bear  me 
to  leave  his  sight.  If  xiircumstances  called  me  away 
for  a  few  minutes,  I  heard  him,  abandoning  his  work, 
move  immediately  from  his  seat,  walk  impatiently 
about  the  room,  and  at  last  hasten  to  the  door,  and 
there  listen  for  my  return  :  if  it  were  postponed  for  a 
minute  longer,  he  either  called  my  name  repeatedly 
and  anxiously,  or  himself  sought  me,  wherever  he 
thought  me  most  likely  to  be  found. 

Our  work  was  at  length  completed,  and  nothing 
could  exceed  the  transport  of  my  poor  father  when  he 
contemplated  and  devoured  with  his  eyes  the  long- 
expected  and  remunerating  result.  A  lucid  statement 
of  all  his  affairs  during  the  seven  years  preceding  his 
failure  was  given  in  a  few  pages,  and  references  were 
made  from  these  to  his  books,  in  such  a  manner,  that, 
in  an  instant,  any  single  transaction  during  the  entire 
period  could  be  arrived  at,  and  then  subjected  to  the 
severest  enquiry.     His  balance-sheet,  in  which   his 


CALEB  STUKELY.  295 

losses  were  accounted  for,  and  were  shown  to  proceed, 
not  from  improvidence  or  fraudulency,  but  from  the 
sudden  and  unlooked-for   fluctuations   of  a   foreign 
tra'de — from  the  insolvency,  in  fact,  of  other  parties 
^he  gloated  over  with  an  admiration  and  pride  that 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  deep  feeling  of  mortifi- 
cation  and   shame   with  which  he  had  a  few  days 
before  dwelt  upon  his  social  degradation.    He  carried 
these  papers  about  with  him  as  a  protection  and  pass- 
port against  the  rude  enquiries  of  enemies  and  stran- 
gers, as  though  he   deemed  himself  unsafe  without 
them,  passing  through  a  land  of  calumny  with  the 
universal  eye  of  suspicion  constantly  upon  him.   Little 
need  be  said  of  the  gala-day — for  such  it  was  to  him 
— on  which  he  underwent  the  close  scanning  of  his 
creditors,  and  passed  with  honour  through  the  fiery 
ordeaL     One  circumstance  connected  with  it  cannot, 
however,  be  omitted.     It  has  to  do  with  Mr  Lev)\ 
Like  all  other  dreaded  things   that  sooner  or  later 
arrive  at  their  full  growth,  my  unfortunate  bill  of  a 
hundred  pounds  came  gradually  and  safely  to  maturity. 
Mr  Levy,  in  his  own  phrase,  "  sought  me  high  and 
low,"  and  not  finding  me,  at  last  proceeded  to  assert 
his  claim  upon  my  goods  and  chattels.     The  tutor  of 
the  college  contested  the  good  man's  right ;  the  latter 
held  up  the  strong  arm  of  the  law,  and  plea  and  coun- 
ter-plea  had   been   briskly  fired,   when  my  father's 
failure  saved  further  shots,  by  carrying  the  settlement 
into  other  hands.     The  creditors  opposed  the  claim 


296  CALEB  STUKELT. 

of  Mr  Levy  upon  the  ground  of  my  minority,  and  my 
consequent  inability  to  contract  the  debt.  That  worthy 
gentleman  met  the  general  opposition  with  a  poetical 
invention,  beautifully  conceived,  but  somewhat  badly 
executed.  When  I  entered  the  room  with  my  father 
upon  the  day  of  his  examination,  three  objects  caught 
my  notice.  The  first  was  Levy,  pire,  sitting  upon  a 
stool,  and  biting  his  nails  with  much  anxiety;  the 
second  was  young  Master  Isaac,  sitting  near  him, 
loaded  with  account-books  to  his  chin ;  the  third  was 
a  dark-visaged  gentleman,  made  in  the  same  mould 
as  Levy  senior,  looking  very  shrewd  and  cunning, 
but  taking  some  pains  to  invest  his  features  with  a 
veil  of  unconscious  innocence,  not  thick  enough  to 
answer  its  design.  As  I  passed  the  youthful  Ikey, 
my  shins  were  favoured  with  a  violent  kick.  I  turned 
upon  the  boy,  and  the  young  fiend  was  feigning  sleep 
upon  a  ledger.  All  other  questions  being  disposed 
of,  Mr  Levy's  claim  was  last  to  be  considered.  His 
name  was  called,  and  my  old  friend  rose. 

"  Give  me  dem  books,  my  boy,"  were  the  first 
accents  of  that  well-known  voice, 

"  Stay  !"  said  a  perk  and  new-fledged  barrister, 
employed  to  grapple  with  the  well-trained  Levy — 
"  Stay,  we  may  dispense  with  books." 

"  As  you  please.  I  vants  to  prove  my  la^v^ul  debt. 
You  needn't  try  to  bother  me ;  I've  got  my  vit- 
nesses." 

The  plea  of  minority  was  then  advanced.     The 


CALEB  STUKELY,  297 

learned  gentleman  spoke  mysteriously  and  rather 
episodically  for  about  an  hour,  and  concluded  by  say- 
ing, that  the  bankrupt's  son  being  an  infant,  the 
chattels  in  question  had  been  de  facto  the  chattels  of 
the  bankrupt,  and  were  now  de  jure  the  chattels  of  the 
assignees,  they  themselves  being  the  locum  teneiites  of 
the  creditors  at  large.  Having  uttered  which  words 
he  resumed  his  seat  with  a  smile  of  content.  Mr 
Levy  begged  permission  to  introduce  a  very  credible 
witness,  who  had  been  present  when  the  bankrupt's 
son  had  distinctly  averred  that  he  was  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  upon  the  faith  of  which  statement  he, 
Mr  Levy,  had  at  length  raised  the  loan,  and  now 
relied  upon  the  satisfaction  of  his  claim.  His  witness 
was  desired  to  appear;  Master  Isaac  stood  up,  and 
my  hair  stood  on  end.  Ikey,  however,  was  not  in  a 
a  good  humour. 

"  How  old  are  you,  boy  ?  "  enquired  the  lawyer. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  imp. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  Perhaps  you'll  know  something  else. 
What  is  an  oath?" 

"  Why,  nothink  at  all  to  si'nify," 

"  Oh,  it  isn't,  isn't  it?"  enquired  the  lawyer  with 
great  acuteness.  "  This  is  your  witness,  Mr  Levy, 
eh  ?  Oh,  ho  !  ha,  ha !  Now,  mark  and  listen,  boy. 
If  an  oath  is  nothing  to  signify,  what  is  it  not  to  sig- 
nify?" The  gentleman  adjusted  his  wig  and  gown, 
both  of  which  had  been  startled  out  of  their  propriety 
by  the  previous  display  of  his  eloquence. 


298  CALEB  STUKELY. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  very  fine,  mister ! "  replied  the 
impertinent  chip  of  Mosaic :  "  come  to  the  point,  and 
let  us  swear.  You'll  believe  me  then ;  and  if  I  don't, 
you  won't." 

"  What's  your  name,  my  sweet  youth  ?  "  asked  the 
lawyer,  very  politely. 

"  Isaac  Levy,"  responded  the  boy. 

"  And  do  you  think,  Isaac  Levy,  that  there  is  such 
a  place  as  hell  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  I  neither  ?  "  returned  Ikey,  with  quick- 
ness. "  Why,  where  do  you  think  all  the  lawyers 
goto?" 

The  counsellor  stopped,  and  forthwith  enquired 
whether  more  was  needed  to  prove  the  ignorance  of 
the  witness  in  respect  of  the  awful  nature  of  an  oath. 
He  was  answered  in  the  negative,  and  young  Ikey 
was  dismissed.  Mr  Levy,  by  ho  means  discouraged, 
stepped  forward,  and  explained  how  he  had  taken  all 
possible  pains  to  secure  his  debt ;  that  he  had  even 
sent  a  gentleman  to  London,  to  announce  to  the  bank- 
rupt the  sum  he  intended  to  advance  his  son,  that 
the  bankrupt  had  sanctioned  the  loan,  and  was  aware 
of  the  security  that  had  been  taken.  The  respectable 
gentleman  who  had  waited  upon  the  bankrupt  was 
now  present,  and  prepared  to  take  his  oath  to  these 
facts ;  and  when  he  had  done  so,  Mr  Levy  fervently 
hoped  that  "  nobody  vouldn't  vish  him  to  be  kept  no 
longer  out  of  his  rights."  This  witness  was  summoned 
to  the  box.    Levy's  double  briskly  jumped  into  it, 


CALEB  STUKELY.  299 

and  my  father's  grey  hairs  became  ten  years  whiter 
with  surprise.  The  witness  nodded  in  an  affectionate 
manner  to  the  bankrupt,  whom,  I  need  not  say,  he 
had  never  seen  before. 

Unfortunately  for  the  persevering  Levy,  it  was 
proved  that  my  parent  was  five  hundred  miles  from 
home  at  the  time  of  the  transaction.  Whilst  a  witness 
was  in  the  act  of  showing  this  beyond  all  doubt.  Levy, 
finding  the  atmosphere  too  close  and  oppressive,  took 
the  opportunity  to  enjoy  a  little  fresh  air.  Ikey  and 
the  books  sneaked  after  him.  The  dark  gentleman, 
less  nimble,  waited  just  long  enough  to  be  detained 
and  given  into  custody,  upon  a  charge  of  wilful  per- 
jury. 

True  it  is,  that  my  father  was  dismissed  with 
honour,  but  not  less  true,  without  a  penny  in  the 
world.  His  stock,  his  furniture,  his  all,  were  disposed 
of  by  public  auction.  His  house  passed  into  strange 
hands.  He  stood  naked  in  life,  with  the  juice  of 
forty  years'  industry  and  mental  energy  drawn  from 
him.  After  all  his  buffeting  with  the  waves  of  for- 
tune, to  have  advanced  not  one  inch  towards  the 
haven  he  aspired  to — it  was  a  gloomy  thought ! — to 
be  hurled  back  upon  the  stony  shore,  hacked  and  torn, 
old,  powerless,  and  spent — that  was  harder  still !  But 
he  did  not  murmur.  He  was  subdued  and  humble. 
Patience  was  left  him  yet ;  he  had  preserved  it  from 
the  general  wreck ;  it  identified  him  with  his  former 
self.    Beyond  it,  what  was  there  now  remaining  of 


300  CALEB  STUKELY. 

the  once  cheerful  and  successful  merchant?  My 
father  had  now  to  look  about  for  a  place  of  refuge. 
He  secured  a  small  ill-furnished  attic  in  one  of  the 
city's  narrowest  lanes.  I  had  strongly  urged  him  to 
rent  an  apartment  away  from  London — in  one  of  the 
suburbs — at  a  distance  from  old  scenes  and  painful 
recollections ;  but  he  would  not  be  persuaded.  "  This 
will  never  do,"  he  said ;  "  we  must  strangle  in  the 
birth,  not  nurse  and  strengthen,  these  cowardly  appre- 
hensions. I  love  the  city's  noise  and  bustle.  I  should 
die  at  once  away  from  it."  When  my  father  had 
placed  into  the  hands  of  his  creditors,  amongst  other 
things,  the  gold  watch  he  had  worn  for  half  a  century, 
the  latter  was  immediately  returned  to  him.  He 
converted  it  without  delay  to  money,  reserved  a  few 
guineas  for  our  most  pressing  wants,  and  handed  the 
residue  to  me,  for  the  purpose  of  buying  at  the  sale 
of  his  furniture  a  few  matters  that  had  belonged  to 
my  mother,  the  idea  of  losing  which  had  cost  him 
sharper  pangs  than  the  real  loss  of  every  other  earthly 
thing.  When  he  left  me  to  take  possession  of  his 
poor  lodging,  I  hastened  to  the  auction. 

Gentle,  happy  reader — happy  in  the  endearments  of 
your  sweet  fireside,  sustained  in  gladsome  confidence 
by  the  bright  smiles  of  your  abiding  houseliold  deities 
— if  you  have  suffered  to  creep  and  twine  about  your 
heart  the  things  of  home — if  with  you  they  have  grown 
old,  and  with  your  strength  have  gained  a  mightier 
hold  upon  your  ripe  affections — if  the  mysterious  spirit 


CALEB  STUKELT.  301 

that  links  the  human  soul  with  dumb  and  hfeless 
things,  hath  made  and  kept  you  one,  beware  the  cruel 
hour  of  separation.  So  sure  it  comes,  so  sure  you 
yield  a  vital  portion  of  yourself  no  surgery  can  renew, 
no  time  can  reinstate.  How  my  blood  crawled  and 
my  flesh  winced,  as  the  irreverent  hand  of  strangers 
tossed  and  turned  about  the  articles  of  furniture  which 
I  had  known,  revered  from  infancy !  how  their  rude 
and  heartless  merriment,  provoked  by  the  appearance 
of  some  curious  and  much-cared-for  relic  of  my  dear 
mother's,  stung  me  with  a  mingled  sense  of  sorrow, 
shame,  and  anger !  how  their  inhuman  observations 
fell  like  iron  on  my  heart  and  crushed  it !  A  number 
of  school-books  were  ofl^ered  in  one  lot  for  sale.  They 
had  been  mine  when  I  was  under  the  care  of  the  good 
clergyman.  How  familiar  were  their  well-used  backs, 
scrawled  and  scribbled  over,  and  what  a  fair  scene  for 
a  moment  did  they  evoke,  carrying  me  back  to  the 
holidays  of  life,  and  permitting  one  passing  gleam  of 
joy  and  innocence  undisturbed  to  stray  across  my  soul 
— too  soon  to  vanish  !  "  Pity,"  exclaimed  a  vulgar, 
ever-talking  huckster,  the  merryman  of  the  party; 
"  pity  the  old  man  didn't  read  his  books  a  little  better  ! 
He  should  have  kept  at  school  a  few  years  longer." 
And  he  laughed  at  his  own  coarse  wit,  which  many 
of  the  company  praised  highly.  I  could  not  execute 
my  commission,  but  left  the  place  inflamed  with  indig- 
nation. 

I  joined  my  parent  in  his  new  abode,  and  discovered 


302  CALEB  STUKELY. 

him  bending  over  the  fire,  busy  in  the  preparation  of 
our  dinner.  It  consisted  of  a  few  potatoes;  and 
amusing  would  it  have  been,  under  any  other  circum- 
stances, to  hsten  to  the  arguments  which  he  employed 
to  recommend  the  very  homely  meal.  "  He  could 
have  procured  a  richer  dish,  had  he  not  considered 
the  paramount  importance  of  attending  to  the  health. 
We  were  now  idle — the  simplest  diet  gave  strength  to 
those  whose  bodies  suffered  no  expenditure — stimu- 
lating food  induced  derangement  and  disease — we 
could  ill  afford  to  pay  the  doctor  now.  Prevention 
of  malady  was  the  point^^he  aimed  at ;  we  had  never 
regarded  this  sufficiently  before.  It  was  time  to  look 
about.  The  Arabs  lived  on  rice.  In  truth,  the  finest 
creatures  in  the  world  were  the  most  moderate."  Such 
were  the  observations  that  he  poured,  by  way  of  rehsh, 
over  the  scanty  and  otherwise  ill-seasoned  fare.  I 
agreed  with  him  most  cordially,  and  I  was  then  "  a 
boy  of  rare  wisdom  for  my  years,  and  undoubtedly  on 
the  high-road  to  fortune  and  success."  Ah,  poor 
father  !  why,  in  the  height  of  all  thy  panegyrics,  rise 
from  the  table,  and  shuffle  so  quickly  to  the  window? 
Why  hum  those  ineffectual  notes?  Why  so  secretly 
extract  that  handkerchief,  and  carry  it  to  thy  cheek? 
In  spite  of  thy  shrewd  reasoning,  is  it  so  difficult  to 
bring  conviction  home  ?  Thy  case  is  not  a  novel  one. 

The  desperate  state  of  our  affairs  had  not  as  yet 
plucked  my  courage  from  me.  I  saw  the  necessity  of 
labouring   for   my   livelihood,    and    prepared    myself 


CALEB  STUKELT.  303 

immediately  for  employment.  There  were  but  two  of 
us;  surely  with  health  and  reason  I  could  do  some- 
thing for  our  support.  I  could  become  a  clerk — a 
teacher  in  a  school ;  there  was  nothing  which  I  would 
not  gladly  undertake  to  render  the  last  days  of  my 
father  smooth  and  peaceful.  I  communicated  my 
intention  to  him.  Whilst  he  did  not  object  to  my 
determination,  he  evinced  no  pleasure  at  it.  "  I  do 
not  see  the  necessity  of  your  leaving  me,  Caleb,"  he 
said ;  "  I  can  hardly  spare  you,  and  I  think  we  have 
enough  to  live  upon." 

"  We  have  four  guineas  in  the  world,  father,"  I 
replied,  "  which  will  last  us  about  as  many  weeks." 

"  Is  it  so  ? "  he  asked  with  a  confused  and  vacant 
air.  "  True,  true,  I  had  forgotten — they  have  taken 
all."  And,  having  cause  for  tears,  he  smiled.  Melan- 
choly omen ! 

I  walked  into  the  world  with  confident  steps,  san- 
guine, fortified  with  youthful  freshness.  It  was  a 
smiling  morning  of  early  spring,  and  buxom  and  glad 
as  the  whole  earth  appeared,  leaping  from  cold  and 
lethargy,  there  existed  not  a  more  cheerful  and  ardent 
nature  than  mine,  when  it  looked  abroad  throbbing 
with  hope  and  satisfaction.  I  could  not  doubt  that 
there  were  many  in  the  world  as  ready  to  secure  my 
services,  as  I  was  willing  to  make  the  offer  of  them. 
Sure  I  was  that  I  had  but  to  present  myself  as  a 
candidate  for  employment  in  the  vast  market-place  of 
human  industry,  in  order  to  be  greedily  accepted.    The 


304  CALEB  STUKELY. 

days  of  early  spring  are  not  remarkable  for  length,  and 
yet  many  hours  before  the  sun  had  dipped  into  the 
west,  all  my  brilliant  expectations  had,  by  degrees, 
declined,  and  waned,  and  quite  expired.  Brighter 
than  the  sun  at  noon  w^ere  my  views  at  daybreak; 
darker  than  the  sun  at  midnight  were  my  hopes  at 
eve.  Nobody  would  hire  me.  I  returned  to  our 
poverty-struck  habitation  more  depressed  than  I  had 
ever  been,  with  a  keener  sense  of  our  abandoned  help- 
less state  than  I  had  ever  ventured  to  conceive.  Not 
the  less  deeply  did  I  feel  our  sorrows  when  my  father 
met  my  dejected  countenance  with  wild  expressions  of 
delight.  A  child  may  gamble  by  its  mother's  corpse. 
Innocence  forgives  the  inconsistency,  and  we  are 
grateful  that  the  gloomy  thought  of  death  is  all  too 
ponderous  for  the  infant  soul ;  but  when  the  man  shall 
laugh  at  human  misery  and  the  wrath  of  Heaven,  be 
sure  his  direst  woe  is  that  which  moved  him  to  his 
mirth — insanity  is  there. 

My  father  was  busy  with  pen  and  paper  when  I 
returned  from  my  unsuccessful  wanderings.  At  his 
side  was  a  dish  of  tea,  that  had  been  prepared,  appa- 
rently, some  hours  before  ;  near  him  an  uncut  loaf  of 
bread ;  close  to  the  fireplace  was  his  tea-pot ;  the  fire 
itself  was  out.  A  candle,  whose  wick  had  not  been 
snuffed  since  it  first  was  kindled,  burned  on  the  table 
with  dull  and  sullen  aspect.  Around  him,  and  on  the 
ground,  were  many  papers,  written,  blotted,  and 
scrawled  upon.     He  greeted  me,  and  extreme  enjoy- 


CALEB  STUKELY,  305 

ment  played  in  every  feature ;  but  he  checked  himself 
and  me,  held  up  his  pen  to  compel  my  silence  and 
arrest  my  progress,  lest  the  motion  of  my  tongue  and 
feet  might  disturb  and  baulk  the  fit  expression  of  some 
luminous  idea  with  which  his  mind  seemed  big.  He 
wrote  some  passages  in  haste,  and  then  he  stopped. 
"  Well,  Caleb,"  he  began,  his  aged  eyes  sparkling 
with  unusual  animation — "you  have  failed.  I  am 
sure  of  it.  Your  looks  tell  me  so.  You  will  not  desert 
your  father  ?  " 

"  I  have  indeed  failed,"  I  answered.  "  I  have  been 
most  unfortunate." 

"  No,  Caleb,  not  when  you  know  all.  You  are  for- 
tunate, very  fortunate.  You  will  say  so  too.  Shut 
the  door,  lad.  I  have  such  a  secret  to  communicate  ! " 
I  obeyed  him,  and  he  beckoned  me  to  the  table,  and 
placed  his  finger  slowly  and  solemnly  upon  his  papers. 
"  A  mine  of  wealth  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  we  shall  be 
richer  than  ever."  I  was  about  to  take  the  papers, 
when  he  detained  my  hand.  "  Not  yet,  not  yet,  Caleb. 
You  must  promise  not  to  divulge  what  is  written, 
until  every  thing  is  secure.  It  is  all  for  you.  I  shall 
not  live  to  have  the  fruition,  but  you  will.  I  have 
tortured  my  brain  to  make  you  rich.  I  am  very  sorry 
that  you  hesitate  to  promise  me.  It  is  wrong  of  you, 
Caleb ;  but  you  will  be  the  sufferer — not  I." 

"  Your  request  is  a  law  with  me,  father,"  I  replied. 
"  I  will  do  as  you  bid  me." 

"  Of  course  you  will,"  he  added  with  a  cunning 

VOL.  I.  2  c 


306  CALEB  STUKELY. 

laugh.  "  We  are  not  so  foolish  in  this  world  as  to  fly 
in  the  face  of  our  best  interests.  That  is  very  clever 
of  you,  Caleb.  There,  feast  your  eyes  upon  the  golden 
prospect."  He  placed  triumphantly  a  sheet  of  paper 
in  my  hand,  and  bade  me  read  from  it  aloud.  The 
characters  were  very  large,  and  had  been  written  with 
an  unsteady  pen.  I  read  the  following  announcement : 
"  The  secret  discovered^  or,  transmutation  no  dream, 
showing  the  method  of  converting  the  inferior  metals  into 
gold:'  "Yes — that's  it,  that's  it  !  "  he  ejaculated,  rub- 
bing his  hands — "  that's  the  title  !  It  came  to  me  this 
morning.  I  have  got  the  process  in  my  head,  but  I 
cannot  make  it  clear  on  paper.  You  are  a  scholar, 
Caleb — you  shall  help  me.  It's  a  simple  operation 
and  cannot  fail.  When  we  have  written  it  out,  we'll 
begin.  When  I  was  a  boy,  Caleb,  I  dreamed  that  I 
should  keep  my  carriage.  I  thought  I  had  lost  it  when 
they  tore  our  bed  away — who  wouldn't  have  thought  it 
then?  But  the  dream's  out  now.  Your  mother  was  a  rare 
believer  in  old  dreams.  Ask  her  what  she  thinks  of 
this." 

Many  slight  inconsistencies  in  my  father's  conduct 
had  alarmed  me  a  few  days  previously  to  this  sad  out- 
break ;  but  I  was  not  prepared  for  what  I  witnessed. 
Overcome  with  astonishment  and  grief,  I  remained 
silent,  imploring  inwardly  the  avenging  hand  of  Heaven 
not  to  spare  me,  but  to  hurl  me  quickly  into  the  gene- 
ral ruin  to  which  our  house  was  doomed. 

"  You  see,  Caleb,"  continued  my  afflicted  parent, 
"  that  you  are  not  allowed  to  leave  your  father.     You 


CALEB  STUKELY.  307 

were  obstinate,  but  a  miracle  has  stayed  you.  Why  I 
have  been  chosen  from  the  millions  of  mankind  to 
penetrate  this  long  dormant  mystery,  I  cannot  tell  now ; 
but  even  this  will  be  revealed  in  its  own  good  time. 
In  the  meanwhile  we  will  show  ourselves  mindful  of  our 
privileges.  Who  knows  but  I  am  sent  to  purify  the 
world — to  enrich  it  first,  and  then  to  free  it  from  pol- 
lution ?  "  He  ceased  not  here,  but  advanced  from  one 
diseased  imagining  to  another,  soaring  higher  and 
higher  in  absurdity,  as  his  hot  and  eager  fancy  rioted 
in  liberty,  until  at  length,  caught  and  entangled  in 
a  maze  of  images,  he  stopped,  failing  to  extricate  him- 
self, unable  to  proceed.  I  dared  not  leave  him  again. 
Had  I  desired  it,  he  would  not  have  permitted  my  de- 
parture ;  but,  on  my  own  part,  I  deemed  it  wrong  to 
abandon  him  to  the  perverse  guidance  of  an  irrespon- 
sible judgment.  His  days  and  nights  were  passed  in 
the  working  out  of  his  great  idea,  as  he  denominated 
it,  and  nothing  might  interfere  with  its  steady  prose- 
cution. I,  who  was  destined  to  profit  so  largely  by 
this  discovery,  was  not  permitted  to  stand  idly  by.  "  It 
would  be,"  he  said,  "  contrary  to  every  law  of  nature, 
and  against  all  notions  of  justice,  to  think  of  passive- 
ness.  The  harvestman  must  use  his  sickle,  or  he  can- 
not reap."  Accordingly,  I  remained,  day  after  day 
and  hour  after  hour,  at  my  poor  father's  side,  sometimes 
writing  from  his  dictation,  and  delighting  him  by  at- 
tempts to  clothe  in  language  that  might  be  understood 
ideas  which  were  not  intelligible  in  themselves,  and 


308  CALEB  STUKELT. 

sometimes  copying,  in  a  clear  and  legible  hand,  the 
many  pages  which  he  had  composed  during  the  long 
and  silent  nights,  whilst  I  was  sleeping.  It  is  unne- 
cessary to  say  that  his  incessant  labour  yielded  not 
even  the  blossom  of  a  wholesome  fruit.  Idle  repeti- 
tions, the  continual  evolving  of  a  few  thoughts,  through 
whose  dark  covering  of  mysteriousness  might  with  dif- 
ficulty be  traced  the  kernel  of  a  simple  and  well-known 
truth,  were  the  produce  of  all  his  brain-work ;  and  yet, 
for  this,  rest,  air,  exercise,  and  needful  food,  were  but 
too  gladly  sacrificed.  He  continued  his  employment 
until  the  last  guinea  which  we  could  call  our  own  re- 
minded me  of  the  inevitable  destitution  towards  which 
we  were  fast  advancing.  I  communicated  our  condition 
to  my  father,  in  the  hope  of  eliciting  one  rational 
intention,  if  he  still  held  one,  with  respect  to  our 
proceedings. 

"  Is  it  the  last  indeed  ?  "  he  asked.  "  How  wonder- 
ful are  the  ways  of  Providence  !  We  have  the  means 
of  support  up  to  the  very  moment  when  we  can  part 
with  them.  Our  last  guinea  will  hold  out  a  week 
longer,  and  then  we  shall  be  ripe  for  action.  This  day 
week,  Caleb,  shall  be  an  eventful  day  for  you.  You 
will  remember  it  with  reason  to  the  last  hour  of  your 
life." 

My  father  spoke  the  truth.  It  was  a  day  never  to 
be  forgotten.  It  stands  by  itself,  flowing  hke  a  tur- 
bulent river  through  the  plain  of  my  existence,  con- 
necting and  dividing  the  life  that  has  followed  since, 


CALEB  STUKELT.  309 

with,  and  from,  the  life  that  went  before.  He  had 
taken  no  rest  for  many  nights  preceding  it ;  and  when 
it  dawned,  its  first  grey  gleaming  light  might  easily 
have  settled  on  his  feverish  brow  without  awakening 
there  a  consciousness  of  its  approach.  His  mind  was 
swallowed  up  in  his  one  great  purpose,  and  day  and 
night,  with  their  vicissitudes  and  fluctuations,  disturbed 
him  not.  He  was  above  the  common  doings  of  the 
world.  Do  we  pity  the  poor  lunatic,  stripped  of  his 
wits,  dismembered  from  the  social  body,  exiled  and  hid 
in  solitary  secret  corners?  Yes,  but  not  half  so 
proudly  as  the  poor  lunatic,  in  his  borrowed  majesty, 
looks  down  and  pities  and  despises  %is.  The  little 
method  that  had  lingered  in  my  father's  composition 
had  entirely  vanished.  His  intellect  was  running  riot, 
and  he  wrote  and  wrote  on,  without  connexion,  mean- 
ing, aim.  He  was  bewildered  ;  but  he  still  blotted  the 
paper,  and  was  more  persevering  than  ever.  I  left  him 
for  a  short  time,  in  order  to  purchase  our  dinner  at  a 
neighbouring  shop.  Upon  my  return,  I  discovered 
him  sitting,  as  when  I  had  left  him,  at  the  table,  pen 
in  hand  ;  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  not  upon  his  papers, 
but  upon  the  ceiling,  and  he  appeared  absorbed  in 
thought.  A  thick  sunbeam,  with  its  countless  parti- 
cles, danced  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  and  darting 
athwart  his  countenance,  lit  every  feature  up  with 
white  and  paly  fire  ;  but  it  passed  powerless  across  the 
madman's  eye.     That  did  not  shrink  or  move,  but, 


310  CALEB  STUKELY. 

like  a  star,  shone  against  the  luminous  stream.  My 
father  heard  my  footstep,  but  did  not  stir. 

"  Is  that  you,  Caleb  ? "  he  enquired,  in  a  gentle 
voice. 

"  Yes,  father,"  I  answered,  "  and  I  have  brought 
you  a  dish  that  you  are  fond  of.  You  must  be  ready 
for  it." 

"  Bring  candles,  my  dear,"  said  my  father  in  reply, 
"  it  is  very  dark.  Night  has  taken  us  by  surprise. 
Lights,  Caleb,  lights  ! " 

I  complied  with  his  request.  Throughout  his  illness 
I  had  taken  pains  to  gratify  and  sooth  him,  by  a  ready 
compliance  with  his  wishes.  Why  should  I  not  hu- 
mour the  new  delusion  ?  Alas,  alas  !  it  was  impossible 
to  misinterpret  the  inefficient  and  endeavouring  mo- 
tions of  his  hand  when  I  again  approached  him.  Nor 
candle,  nor  lamp,  nor  the  blessed  light  of  heaven,  could 
serve  him  more.  Whether  the  aged  eyes  of  the 
afflicted  man  had  been  bruised  or  injured  in  their  recent 
bondage,  or  whether  suddenly  the  kind  hand  of  Provi- 
dence, with  a  wise  intent,  had  put  a  seal  upon  them,  I 
could  not  telL  Blind-stricken  he  was,  and — with  his 
reason  gone — more  helpless  than  a  child.  My  poor 
heart  fluttered  as  I  led  him  to  his  bed.  Clustering 
woes  had  fallen  upon  me — it  was  hard  to  stand  the 
brunt.  My  dear  father  was  patient  and  submissive  in 
my  hands.  He  knew  not  the  extent  of  his  calamity. 
"  He  wondered  why  the  night  had  come  so  quickly — 


CALEB  STUKELY.  311 

he  wished  that  it  would  go,  and  leave  him  to  his  work 
again."  Having  placed  him  as  comfortably  as  I  might 
upon  the  bed  which  was  made  nightly  upon  the  floor, 
I  secured  without  delay  the  assistance  of  a  doctor. 
One,  to  whom  I  was  directed,  and  who  lived  not  far 
from  our  lane,  accompanied  me  home.  He  examined 
his  patient  carefully,  and  departed,  promising  to  send 
the  necessary  medicine.  I  followed  the  doctor  to  the 
street  door,  and,  with  much  anxiety,  asked  if  there  was 
any  danger. 

"  From  the  blindness,  do  you  mean  ? "  he  asked. 
"  I  could  make  your  mind  easy  if  we  had  nothing  to 
contend  with  but  that.  Unfortunately,  however,  this 
blindness  is  the  effect  of  even  a  more  threatening  mis- 
chief." 

"  He  is  very  quiet,"  I  responded  quickly. 

"  Yes,  I  wish  he  were  less  so.  I  am  very  much 
afraid  " 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  "  I  exclaimed,  clasping  my  hands,  and 
weeping  bitterly ;  "  do  not  say  that,  sir — there  can  be 
no  danger.  It  is  so  very  sudden.  You  have  had  simi- 
lar cases,  have  you  not  ?  " 

« I  have." 

"  And  they  recovered  ?  " 

"  I  must  not  deceive  you.     They  have  not." 

"  What  shall  I  do,  sir  ?  If  I  lose  him  I  lose  all. 
I  haven't  another  friend  in  the  wide  world.  This  is 
punishment  indeed ! " 

"  I  shall  send  the  medicine  at  once,"  said  the  doc- 


312  C.VLEB  STUKELT. 

tor,  without  noticing  my  passion,  "  and  I  will  see  him 
again  during  the  night.  You  will  sit  up  with  him,  of 
course.  Don't  leave  him.  Should  he  become  much 
weaker  and  appear  to  sink,  let  me  know." 

"  Give  me  some  little  hope,"  I  cried  imploringly. 

"  You  hear  what  I  have  said,"  continued  the  prac- 
titioner; "  don't  forget.     Good-day." 

And  he  left  me  marvelling  at  the  insensibility  of 
mankind. 

I  sat  at  my  parent's  side  for  many  hours.  In  spite 
of  the  doctor's  sad  assurances,  I  could  not  believe  in 
the  presence  of  immediate  danger.  I  would  not  be- 
lieve in  it.  The  streets  were  full  of  human  voices  and 
the  hum  of  busy  life,  when  I  drew  my  chair  towards 
him,  and  surveyed  his  pale  and  placid  countenance. 
There  was  talking  and  bustling,  without  and  within, 
on  the  pavement  under  our  window,  upon  the  stairs 
in  the  house,  every  where  but  in  our  own  dark  cham- 
ber of  misfortune,  where  silence,  chased  and  affrighted 
from  the  world,  kept  company  with  sickness.  Now 
the  lamps  in  the  street  were  lighted,  and  the 
stream  of  life  was  more  distinctly  head,  murmuring 
along.  Artisans  were  returning  from  their  daily  toil, 
gay  and  care-free.  Bells  were  rung  and  knockers 
hammered  with  scarce  an  interval  of  repose.  What 
wholesome  well-earned  food  awaited  the  healthful 
appetite !  What  welcome  from  loving  eyes  of  wife 
and  children  !  Happy  labourers  !  And  now  the  hours 
of  night  came  on,  and  the  feverish  pulse  of  the  great 


CALEB  STUKELY.  313 

thoroughfare  beat  with  diminished  force.  By  degrees 
the  street  became  deserted — the  crowds  had  disap- 
peared— silence  had  ventured  forth  again.  How,  at 
times,  she  was  offended  and  disturbed,  you  might 
plainly  tell,  when  some  belated  and  excited  rambler 
pierced  her  modest  ear  with  the  licentious  scream  of 
wantonness  and  inebriety;  but  the  repetition  was 
infrequent,  and  ceased  at  length.  The  heavy  breath- 
ings of  the  poor  blind  man  were  soon  the  loudest 
sounds  of  life.  He  neither  spoke  nor  slept — his  lips 
were  moving  ever,  and  he  drew  and  pressed  them  close, 
as  though  he  thirsted.  I  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to 
send  for  the  physician ;  but  I  grew  impatient,  and  often 
hurried  to  the  window  to  watch  for  his  arrival.  It  was 
four  o'clock;  the  moon  shone  beautifully  clear,  and 
graced  our  narrow  lane  with  its  full  share  of  silver 
light.  I  looked  into  the  slumbering  street,  and 
ruminated  on  the  past.  What  a  retrospect !  And 
what  a  future  !  The  history  of  a  few  short  months 
had  been  a  fearful  one.  The  history  of  the  time  to 
come,  who  could  decide,  encompass  that!  Thoughts 
of  my  lost  mother — lost  to  me  for  ei?e;-— did  not  fail  to 
come,  and  in  the  sweet  serenity  of  night  to  thrill  me 
with  emotion.  I  looked  to  the  transparent  sky — the 
homestead  of  the  pure — her  dwelling-place,  and,  in  the 
pang  and  conflict  of  remorse,  implored  the  Saint  to 
pardon  me.  Since  ten  o'clock  I  had  heard,  at  the 
close  of  every  half  hour,  the  watchman's  voice,  chroni- 
cling the  lapse  of  time.  Some  dozen  times  his  loud 
VOL.  I,  2d 


314  CALEB  STUKELY. 

and  chanting  tone  had  returned  upon  my  ear,  and  then 
the  voice  had  grown  famihar  as  a  voice  that  had  been 
known  from  infancy.  So  long  it  seemed  since  I  had 
heard  the  accents  first,  that  I  could  scarcely  fix  their 
earliest  beginning.  With  the  announcement  of  the 
decease  of  four  o'clock,  a  coach  and  pair  rattled  up  the 
lane.  It  stopped  before  our  door,  and  it  discharged 
the  doctor.  He  was  in  full  dress.  A  diamond  ring 
glittered  on  his  finger,  and  his  clothes  were  redolent 
of  strong  perfume. 

"  You  haven't  sent  for  me  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  brushed 
by  me,  and  hastened  up  stairs. 

"  I  have  not,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"  No — I  should  have  heard  of  it.  I  have  been  at  a 
ball,  and  I  desired  your  messenger,  if  he  came,  to  be 
sent  after  me.     How  is  your  father  now  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  perceive  a  change,  sir — But  you  will 
see." 

We  entered  the  room  together.  My  father  was 
sitting  up  in  bed.  A  strange  alteration  had  come 
over  him.  He  was  ghastly  pale,  and  his  features  were 
pinched  up  and  angular.  He  drew  his  breath  with 
difficulty. 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  enquired  the  doctor,  running  to  his 
side  and  examining  his  pulse.  My  father's  lips  moved 
quickly  and  convulsively.  I  imagined  that  he  endea- 
voured to  pronounce  my  name.  I  traced  the  half 
formation  of  the  w^ord,  but  could  not  catch  the  sound 
of  it.     The  doctor  released  the  hand,  and  walked  from 


CAXEB  STUKELT.  315 

the  bedside.  My  father  spoke.  It  was  a  last,  a 
struggUiig  effort,  and  he  succeeded.  "  Caleb,  lights 
— lights  ! — dark — dark — dark  ! " — and  he  grew  rigid, 
and  he  slipped  from  my  embrace  until  he  lay  motion- 
less and  dead  before  me. 

Of  all  the  calamities  incident  to  our  present  state, 
and  their  name  is  legion,  there  is  none  more  exquisitely 
painful  to  the  sensitive  mind,  than  that  of  being  left  in 
the  world  a  solitary  outcast,  without  a  tie,  without  a 
hope.  Wo  to  the  poor  orphan,  deprived  of  the  head 
that  considered,  the  heart  that  throbbed  for  him !  wo 
to  him  when  the  goodly  tree — his  only  prop  from 
childhood,  against  which  he  has  reclined  as  against  a 
rock  that  never  could  be  shaken — is  struck  at  the  root, 
falls,  and  disappears  !  Let  him  take  the  wings  of  the 
morning,  and  search  through  the  land  for  a  spirit 
loving  and  watchful  as  that  which  is  flown,  upon  whose 
willing  bosom  were  so  lightly  borne  his  solicitudes  and 
sorrows,  and  all  the  weight  of  anxious  care  he  cast 
without  a  thought  there.  Father  and  mother !  Holy 
names,  mth  claims  which  are  so  seldom  understood 
and  recognised  until  the  desire  and  power  to  meet 
them  can  no  longer  serv^e  us.  Nurse  of  our  infancy 
— instructor  of  our  boyhood — adviser  of  our  youth — 
friend  of  our  manhood — staff"  and  support  throughout 
— what  is  not  comprehended  in  your  relationship  ? 
How  much  do  your  children  owe  you  !  Let  them 
answer  as  they  sob  at  the  deathbed,  and  learn  their 
loss  in  feehng  what  they  need.     As  I  held  the  cold 


316  CALEB  STUKELT. 

hand  of  my  deceased  father,  how  many  cruel  deviations 
from  fiUal  duty  rushed  to  my  mind,  crowding  one  after 
another  upon  my  memory,  which  I  would  now  have 
given  my  right  hand  never  to  have  been  guilty  of. 
What  tribulation  I  might  have  spared  him  !  Now  an 
unkind  word  spoken  in  impatience  many  years  ago, 
and  forgotten  as  soon  as  spoken,  started  to  remem- 
brance, stinging  me  with  remorse.  Why  had  I  not 
implored  forgiveness  for  that  word  before  ?  What 
sorrow  may  the  utterance  of  that  one  syllable  have 
caused  him,  falUng  on  his  warm  heart,  and  rankhng 
there  !  What  profited  my  burning  tears  of  penitence  ? 
— the  eye  was  closed,  the  ear  was  shut ;  there  was  no 
avenue  by  which  to  reach  him  now.  "  Oh  yes  !  "  I 
passionately  exclaimed,  dropping  on  my  knees,  "  there 
is,  there  is  ! — if  the  departed  soul,  bursting,  as  I  have 
been  told,  its  earthly  house,  ascends  at  once  to  heaven, 
surely  he  is  at  this  moment  there,  and  is  accessible  by 
prayer.  Father,"  I  continued,  weeping  amain,  "  I 
supplicate  thy  pardon  for  the  pastel  repent  my 
numerous  crimes  committed  against  thee  here.  Turn 
not  thy  spirit  from  me.  Let  it  accept  in  mercy  the 
contrite  offerings  of  a  broken  heart."  A  knock  at  the 
door  interrupted  the  extravagant  devotion.  Two 
women,  who  came  to  perform  the  first  offices  for  the 
dead,  entered  the  room  with  a  slow  step,  and  whisper- 
ing. I  shall  never  forget  the  chill  that  crept  through 
my  frame  when  I  heard  them  refer  for  the  first  time 
to  "  the  corpse^     Such  isolation  was  expressed  in  the 


CALEB  STUKELY.  317 

word — the  reality  of  death  was  so  apparent  in  it — it 
marked  so  distinctly  the  abstraction  of  all  human  rela- 
tions, and  separated  so  emphatically  my  poor  father 
from  every  living  thing  !  The  crawhng  worm  was  now 
a  nobler  animal  than  the  motionless  and  rigid  man. 
I  had  beheld  the  previous  day's  decline.  I  had  seen 
the  earth  go  gradually  to  rest.  Another  day  was  in 
its  birth.  The  early  labourer  went  forth  again  refreshed 
and  cheerful.  He  whistled  as  he  passed  my  window. 
What  thought  had  he  of  my  bereavement?  What 
single  heart,  of  the  numberless  thousands  that  were 
about  to  congregate  again,  would  beat  with  pity  for  my 
loss  ?  with  sorrow  for  my  melancholy  lot  ?  Not  one  ! 
There  was  no  sympathy  for  the  beggared  orphan. 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


EDINBURGH:  PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE   AND  IlfGUES, 
PAUL'S  WOKK,  CANONGATE. 


TO 


ALEXANDER  BLAIR,  LL.D. 


HIS   BEST   AND   DEAREST  FRIEND, 


THESE  VOLUMES  ARE  INSCRIBED, 


IN  GRATIFIED  AND  REVERENTIAL  AFFECTION, 


BY 


THE  AUTHOR.